


your heart is a hurricane

by splendidlyimperfect



Series: i'm still standing [2]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Moving On, Natsu's a great friend, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Rogue and Sting are just really in love, Rogue tries to do what's right, Self-Harm, Sobriety, Sting fucks up a LOT, Sting goes through a lot of shit and it isn't pretty, Sting grows and uses his trauma to help other people, Sting-focused story, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Sting, Uncle Wes is the parent Sting always needed, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-28 23:16:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splendidlyimperfect/pseuds/splendidlyimperfect
Summary: Sting's entire life changed when he was eleven years old and his best friend Rogue told a secret that he'd promised to keep. Taken away from the father who abused him and the best friend who'd tried to save him, Sting tried to start a new life with his uncle. But the trauma wasn't easy to escape, and eventually Sting turned to drinking to forget the things that hurt.Now he's an adult, and he hasn't been sober in years. But when drinking nearly kills him and a near-stranger saves his life, Sting has a chance to turn his life around, and maybe become the man that Rogue deserves to love.





	1. worthless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDarkGodMogar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkGodMogar/gifts).

> Written for [Nonbinary Month 2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/NonbinaryMonth2019) (Sting + Trans)
> 
> This is a companion piece to [how to become a wildfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074658) and it also deals with the topic of abuse. However, this work is focused more on the aftermath of being abused as a child, and features a lot of bad coping skills, including alcoholism. 
> 
> Gifted to TheDarkGodMogar 'cause it's seriously 99% his ideas, I just put it in words.
> 
> **CW for child abuse, PTSD, alcoholism, self-harm and suicidal thoughts.**  
Trigger warnings will be posted on each chapter if necessary.
> 
> Find me on tumblr as [@splendidlyimperfect](https://splendidlyimperfect.tumblr.com/)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting hits rock bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for drinking/alcohol poisoning, mentions of past abuse & suicidal thoughts

worth· less | \ ˈwərth-ləs   
adjective   
: lacking; having no real value or use 

** . **

**x**  
**winter  
** **age nineteen**

** . **

Sting hits rock bottom three weeks before Christmas. 

“Holy shit, are you okay?” 

The voice coming from above him is familiar, but when Sting squints up at the person it belongs to, he doesn’t recognize them. To be fair, they’re nothing but a vague blur of blue and pink. 

“’m fine,” he mumbles, tipping his head back against the wall and sighing at the cool brick against his skin. He expects the person to leave – they usually do – but instead, there’s a warm hand on his forearm. 

“Hey, c’mon, look at me.” 

Sting frowns, looking down at the hand and then back up to the person. Now that they’re closer, Sting can see that the pink is their hair. He’s pretty sure he knows someone with pink hair, but everything is fuzzy and kind of numb right now, so it’s not important. 

“Go… ‘way,” Sting says, batting feebly at the hand on his arm. His arms are heavy, and moving makes the whole world spin until it’s nothing but a blur of colors and shapes that tug at whatever’s left in Sting’s stomach. 

He leans forward and throws up. 

“Fucking hell!” the person shouts, scrambling backward as Sting tips to the side, gagging on the taste of liquor that’s stuck in the back of his throat. He tries to push himself back up, but his arms aren’t really working, and Sting’s pretty sure that’s not a good thing. 

“S’rry,” he slurs, then throws up again, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he tries to gasp in air. 

“Sting, what the hell?” The voice is still there, and the pink blob moves back into Sting’s space, warm hand now on the back of his neck instead of his arm. Sting flinches and tries to shove the hand off, but they’re stronger than him. Everyone always is. 

“Don’ touch me.” He tries to sound assertive, but it comes out more like begging – _ please stop, please don’t hurt me, please just leave me alone because I can’t feel anything and that’s fine. _

“Call 911,” the voice says to someone else, and Sting’s fear starts to turn to panic. 

“N-no,” he mumbles, forcing himself to keep his eyes open and actually _look_ at the person in front of him. It takes him a second, but he eventually realizes it’s Natsu. They had worked together at the café until Sting had fucked up and gotten fired a few weeks ago. 

“’m sorry,” Sting manages, trying to shrug off the hand that’s still on his shoulder. Where is he? Everything’s just vague shapes that move in ways they shouldn’t, but Sting’s pretty sure that’s an Exit sign above Natsu’s head. The wall behind him isn’t really a wall, it’s metal bars, and… “Stairs.” 

“Yeah, you’re on the stairs,” Natsu says, keeping his hand on the back of Sting’s neck. “Are you hurt?” Another hand starts to move across Sting’s body and Sting finds enough strength and coordination to shove Natsu away. 

“… said don’ touch me.” 

_ Please. Don’t hurt me. I won’t do it again. I’ll be good, I’ll be better, I’ll— _

“Sting, I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

Someone else is nearby, another blurry shape that’s saying things like _drunk_ and _maybe high_ and _agitated_ into a phone. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Natsu says, and a wounded, angry noise breaks from Sting’s throat as he tries to shuffle further back. He misjudges and everything tips beneath him again. The ground reaches for him, dragging him down until his cheek meets concrete. 

He can’t feel it. It doesn’t matter. 

“Not,” Sting mumbles as he tries to push himself up. He can taste blood now, but that’s nothing new. “Jus’… don’t.” 

“I’m sorry, I won’t touch you.” Natsu’s voice sounds distant, like the words are fighting their way to Sting, and that’s fine because he needs to get as far away as possible. “There’s an ambulance on its way, you’re gonna be okay.” 

“’m fine.” 

“You are the farthest fucking thing from fine,” Natsu says, and there’s that sharp edge that Sting’s been waiting for. He can’t bring his arms up, they won’t listen to him, but it doesn’t matter because everything is numb anyways. 

“Just keep breathing, okay?” 

Sting’s pretty sure he’s not in control of that anymore, and now his body really isn’t listening to him because everything’s going tight and it hurts like hell and he can’t stop shaking, and suddenly, he’s certain he’s going to die. 

* * *

Waking up is so unpleasant that the first few time Sting does it, he refuses to stay conscious and fades back into something numb. Eventually he can’t keep himself asleep, so he cracks one eye open and immediately wishes he hadn’t. 

“If you weren’t already half-dead, I’d murder you.” 

Pink hair again. Natsu’s sitting next to Sting, hair mussed and eyes red with lack of sleep. Sting blinks a few times. When he finally realizes he’s in a hospital room, he isn’t really surprised. It’s not the first time. 

“You almost died,” Natsu says, leaning forward and rubbing his face. “What the hell were you thinking?” 

“I…” Sting’s not sure what to say to that. “’m sorry,” he manages, closing his eyes against the headache that’s starting to pound in his temples. His cheek hurts, and he vaguely remembers falling face-first onto the concrete. 

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the soft beeping of whatever machinery is hooked up to Sting. Then Natsu sighs, sitting up and running his hands through his hair. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says, glaring at Sting. “You know how long you’ve been out?” 

Sting squints at him. There’s still a foggy haze around everything, and his tongue feels too big for his mouth. 

“Two days,” Natsu says before Sting can answer. “You had a seizure before the ambulance could get there. I thought you were gonna die.” 

Sting tries to focus his gaze, then gives up and squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry,” he mumbles, bringing a hand up to rub his face. The other is attached to an IV that aches beneath his skin. 

After a minute he opens his eyes again and frowns at Natsu. “Why’re you here?” he asks, realizing as soon as the words leave his mouth how ungrateful he sounds. He’s about to apologize again when Natsu interrupts him. 

“Because you don’t have anybody else.” 

Sting’s cheeks burn and he tips his head back onto the pillow, trying hard to blink away the tears that are quickly filling his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispers. His throat hurts and his stomach aches and part of him wishes he _had_ died. 

“I’ve...” Sting tries to talk but the words come out as more of a sob. When Natsu’s hand covers his own he flinches, but Natsu doesn’t let go. 

“Do you wanna quit drinking?” Natsu asks gently. 

Sting can’t stop the tears, so he just lets them fall, streaking down his cheeks and dampening the pillow. Natsu already knows. When they’d worked together, he’d caught Sting sleeping off a hangover in the back room. Sting had managed to stay sober for six days before that, but it hadn’t stuck. It never does. 

Sting nods, rubbing the tears from his cheeks. “Yes, fuck, I...” He’s hit by a wave of nausea and he tenses, squeezing Natsu’s hand out of reflex. When the feeling passes, Sting lets out a quiet, gasping breath. He feels so small and stupid. 

“You can stay with me,” Natsu says. 

The words don’t register at first. Sting’s too busy focusing on not throwing up that it takes him a minute to process what Natsu’s said. 

“What?” 

“Stay with me,” Natsu repeats. He’s still holding Sting’s hand. “At my apartment. You don’t have anywhere to live, right?” Sting shakes his head, still dazed. “If you’re really gonna quit, you can stay at my place, but you’ve gotta be serious about it.” 

Sting can’t look at Natsu because if he does, he’ll fall apart completely. He doesn’t deserve help. Part of him wants to refuse, wants to push Natsu away before Sting hurts him, too. All he does is fuck up and hurt people. 

But he’s scared and exhausted and so goddamn lonely, and he desperately wants to be more than this. 

“Okay,” he says, and the words scrape the inside of his throat, but they feel right. 


	2. detox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natsu helps Sting through withdrawal, and Sting thinks about Rogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for brief mention of self-harm & suicide attempt

de·tox·i·fy | \ (ˌ)dē-ˈtäk-sə-ˌfī   
verb  
**: **to free (someone, such as a drug user or an alcoholic) from an intoxicating or an addictive substance in the body or from dependence on or addiction to such a substance

**.**

**xi**   
** winter**   
** age nineteen**

**.**

“Were you trying to kill yourself?”

The question comes the day after they get home from the hospital. Sting’s curled up on the couch, shivering and trying to ignore his aching stomach. He looks up at Natsu, who’s crouched in front of him with a glass of water.

“What?”

“Were you trying to kill yourself?” Natsu repeats, looking Sting in the eye. His expression is hard to figure out, but Sting’s pretty sure he’s not angry. Sting knows what angry looks like.

He takes the water from Natsu and drains the whole glass, then gives it back with trembling hands. Natsu stands up and grabs another blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over Sting’s shoulders as he shivers. He’s so fucking cold.

“I dunno,” Sting admits eventually. “Maybe?”

“Why?”

Sting can’t answer the question right away because his stomach cramps up and he groans, curling into a tighter ball and wrapping his arms around himself. He’s already thrown up more times than he can count, so he knows there’s nothing left in his stomach, but it’s roiling anyway – rebelling against him, asking for the one thing he can’t have.

Natsu’s hand brushes against Sting’s forehead and Sting flinches.

“Maybe coming home from the hospital wasn’t the best idea,” Natsu murmurs, nudging Sting over so he can sit next to him on the couch. “You’re burning up again.” He sets one of the couch cushions in his lap and nudges Sting until he’s lying on it, face almost pressed into Natsu’s stomach.

“I’m s-sorry,” Sting manages, squeezing his eyes shut. Natsu reaches back and flicks off the lamp so that the only light in the room is the soft glow of the moon spilling through the window.

Another spasm wracks Sting’s body, and his jaw seizes up from the tension. The only sound he can make is a low, groaning noise. Natsu’s hand touches his forehead again, and then gentle fingers start to comb through his hair, shifting the sweaty strands that are plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck.

“You’re gonna make it through this,” Natsu says, one hand rubbing Sting’s arm while the other keeps brushing through his hair. “Has it been this bad before?”

Sting manages to shake his head. The last time he was sober for more than a week, he’d been seventeen, and Uncle Wes had been the one helping him through it. He’s tried to quit before, but he’s pretty sure he’s never made it longer than six days, and it’s never been like this.

Sting drifts in and out of sleep for a while, and eventually Natsu turns on the TV to some cooking show that Sting vaguely recognizes. Uncle Wes used to watch it. The background noise is calming, somehow. Natsu keeps combing his hair, and every time a spasm pulls at Sting, Natsu rubs his back and tells him quietly that he’s going to be okay.

* * *

When Sting wakes up the next day, the first thing he wants is a drink.

He opens his eyes slowly, squinting against the sunlight that’s filling the room. It takes a second to figure out where he is – he’s expecting the couch at Ryan’s, or the back alley near the bar, or maybe a bed at the shelter if he’s lucky. Instead, he realizes that he’s in Natsu’s apartment with his head in Natsu’s lap. Natsu is fast asleep with his head tipped back and one hand still resting on Sting’s shoulder.

As soon as Sting tries to sit up, Natsu’s awake, rubbing his eyes and yawning. The first words out of his mouth are, “How are you feeling?”

Sting can’t answer because the truth will just be disappointing.

“Fine,” he says, but when he tries to sit up, he nearly passes out.

“Nice try,” Natsu grumbles, flicking Sting’s forehead. Sting winces, trying to bat Natsu’s hand away, but his whole body feels weak and heavy. “You think you can eat something?”

The mention of food makes Sting’s stomach cramp again, and he tries to roll away from Natsu to vomit. He tumbles awkwardly off the couch, banging his arm on the coffee table and ending up on his hands and knees. Heat flushes through Sting’s body as his stomach contracts, but nothing comes up, so he just heaves a few times and then collapses face-first onto the carpet.

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” Natsu says dryly, tossing the blanket off and kneeling next to Sting. “C’mon, let’s get you in the bath.”

Sting tries to protest, but his movements are feeble and Natsu shakes his head.

“You smell like vomit and tequila,” he says, wrinkling his nose as he hauls Sting to his feet. “You’re gonna have a bath, take the meds from the hospital, and go back to sleep until you can do something other than puke.”

They’re in the bathroom and Sting’s sitting on the toilet as Natsu runs the bath when Sting suddenly realizes that he’s going to have to undress.

“W-wait,” he mumbles, grabbing at the hem of his shirt as Natsu turns to him. He shakes his head and the whole room spins.

“I lived in a dorm with communal showers for a year,” Natsu says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve seen naked dudes before. C’mon, let me help you.”

“’s not the… the same,” Sting insists, crossing his arms over his chest and blinking hard to try to get the room back into focus. Natsu doesn’t know, and Sting’s not sure he’ll understand. “Don’t wanna.”

Natsu sighs, rubbing his face and leaning back against the wall. “I’m worried you’re gonna drown if I’m not helping you,” he says gently. “If you’d rather take a shower you can keep the curtain closed and I’ll stand out here?”

Sting slides down from the toilet onto the floor and pulls his knees up to his chest, wishing everything would stop spinning. Natsu’s right. He can’t even stand up on his own, never mind take a shower.

He wants to cry.

“Can’t,” he says eventually, peeking up at Natsu. “Myself, I mean.”

Natsu reaches over and turns off the water, then sits back on his heels and studies Sting carefully. “What’s going on?” he asks. His expression is gentle and open, and Sting finds himself falling into it.

“’m different…” Sting says, tipping his head back against the cabinet. “Jus’… stuff.” He waves a hand vaguely at himself – he hasn’t had to talk about this since he came out to Ryan three years ago. Sting knows that he’s making next to zero sense but Natsu’s face suddenly shifts to an expression of realization.

“Gotcha,” he says, nodding. “Okay, if you’re—if you’d rather do it yourself, we can wait until tomorrow, see if you feel better? But I don’t mind helping you if you want me to.”

“You… don’t care?” Sting asks, frowning.

Natsu shakes his head. “My ex was trans, too,” he says.

“Oh.”

It hangs between them for a moment, and eventually Sting nods. “Okay,” he says quietly, unwrapping his arms from around his knees and reaching out slowly to Natsu. Natsu takes Sting’s hand and squeezes it before standing and pulling Sting up to his feet.

“C’mon,” Natsu says, helping Sting tug his shirt off. It’s not as awkward as Sting expects it to be – probably because he’s too dizzy to focus on what Natsu can and can’t see of his body. Before he knows it, he’s settled in the bathtub, warm water soothing his aching muscles.

Natsu’s hands are gentle as he helps Sting wash his hair with shampoo that smells like vanilla and coconut. Sting hasn’t had a bath like this in ages, and he’s so comfortable that he nearly falls asleep.

Eventually he ends up curled up on Natsu’s bed, wearing too-big sweatpants and a hoodie that says _Danston University _across the chest.

“Go back to sleep,” Natsu says gently, tugging the duvet up over Sting. He still can’t stop shivering. “I’ll come back in a bit to see how you’re doing, okay?”

Panic suddenly races through Sting’s body and the urge to cry hits him like a blow to the chest. “D-don’t…”

“You want me to stay?” Natsu asks, and Sting nods, relieved that he doesn’t have to ask. Natsu nudges Sting over – the bed’s only a double, so there’s barely enough room for both of them – and grabs a book from the nightstand, then leans back against the headboard.

“Sleep,” he says, and Sting’s hit by a wave of exhaustion that makes him sink into the mattress. The last thing he remembers is the shuffle of the pages of the book, and Natsu saying, “I promise I won’t go anywhere.”

* * *

Sting spends the next few days alternating between throwing up everything he eats and trying to sleep between horrifying nightmares. None of them make any sense, but he always wakes up with the unsettled feeling that something’s chasing him, or he’s going to die. 

Eventually, Sting starts to feel human again. He’s stopped shivering and sweating, and he’s finally able to keep down a handful of crackers and some plain pasta. Natsu hasn’t left the apartment except to run to the drugstore for medication.

“I wasn’t trying to die.”

Sting finally answers Natsu’s question a week after they come home from the hospital. They’re both sitting on the couch – Sting has his head in Natsu’s lap again, and Natsu’s flipping through his phone with one hand and combing Sting’s hair with the other. The sensation is comforting, and it keeps Sting’s mind off wanting to drink. 

“You asked if I was trying to kill myself,” Sting clarifies as Natsu puts his phone away and looks down at Sting. “I wasn’t.” Natsu doesn’t say anything, still running his fingers through Sting’s hair. “I tried once,” Sting continues, voice soft. “A little while before we started working together.”

He can feel Natsu’s gaze move to his forearms and the multitude of white scars across his freckled skin.

“Why?” Natsu asks again, and his voice holds no accusation, only gentle curiosity.

Sting sighs, rubbing his face. “Lots of reasons,” he says after a minute. “I’d fucked things up again, and I had… nothing. Nobody.”

“You don’t have family?” Natsu asks.

Sting shakes his head, trying not to think about his dad. An image of Uncle Wes flashes through Sting’s mind, but he shakes it away regretfully. There’s no way he’d want to see Sting again – not after the last time.

“My mom died and my dad’s an asshole,” Sting says eventually.

“Friends?”

Sting shrugs. “Everyone I know here is… into bad shit,” he says.

Then he thinks of Rogue. Sting hasn’t seen Rogue since they were eleven and Sting used to be Abbey. Sting knows Rogue’s an adult now, like him, but the last image Sting has of him is a scared, confused kid who had taken care of him when nobody else would.

“I used to have a best friend,” Sting says softly. He looks down at his hand. There’s a scar on his ring finger from when they’d built the tree fort in Rogue’s back yard and Sting had nearly nailed his hand to one of the planks of wood. The memory is bittersweet – that fort had been their hideaway, as well as Sting’s only safe place as a little kid.

“What happened?” Natsu asks.

“He was just trying to help,” Sting says sadly. “And I was stupid. I hated him for it for a long time. I thought he’d ruined my life.”

Natsu doesn’t say anything, just sits quietly with Sting and his guilt. Eventually Sting sighs and looks up at Natsu.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Sting says. “The only person who ruined my life was me.”


	3. turmoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Rogue is eleven, his best friend starts acting strange, and he doesn't understand why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of abuse (from a kid's perspective) 
> 
> It's mentioned in the last chapter, but Abbey was Sting's name before he transitioned.

tur·moil | \ ˈtər-ˌmȯi(-ə)l  
noun  
**: **a state or condition of extreme confusion, agitation, or commotion

**.**

**i**   
** summer**   
** age eleven**

**.**

Rogue meets Abbey on the first day of kindergarten. Another boy is pulling Rogue’s hair, and Abbey stomps up to him and shoves him down to the ground. Then she grabs Rogue’s hand and they run and hide under the jungle gym so the teacher can’t yell at them. When Abbey grins at Rogue, he knows that they’re going to be best friends forever.

* * *

The first time Rogue notices that something’s wrong with Abbey, it’s the second week of summer break after grade five. They’re playing soccer at the park when Gajeel shows up and tells Rogue to come home for lunch. Abbey pouts, kicking the soccer ball against Rogue’s shins.

“Come over,” Rogue says, picking up the ball. “Come have lunch with us.”

Abbey shakes her head, looking back down the road toward her house. “I can’t,” she says. “I told dad I’d come home.” She looks at Rogue and he thinks she might explain, but she just shakes her head and says, “See you tomorrow,” before taking off down the street.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Rogue climbs up the tree fort in the back yard, and he nearly falls out when he sees Abbey, curled up in the corner with her chin on her knees. The hood of her sweater is pulled up over her head, and Rogue can see dark marks on her wrists. It makes his stomach hurt.

“What happened?” Rogue asks, shuffling over and sitting down next to her. He reaches out for her arm, but she yanks it away, pulling her sleeves down over her hands.

“Soccer,” she says, staring at the spot on the floor where they’d accidentally started a fire last year. There’s still a charred mark across the wood. “’m fine.”

Rogue frowns. Abbey hadn’t fallen when they were playing soccer. He looks around and sees Abbey’s backpack shoved in the corner of the treehouse, settled on top of a pillow and a folded blanket.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” she asks, refusing to look at Rogue.

“You mean have a sleepover?”

Abbey shakes her head. She rubs at her face, then pulls back her hood. Rogue’s eyes widen when he sees her hair. She’s cut off her ponytail, and the dirty blond strands hang in her face, ragged and uneven.

“I mean up here,” she says, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “Can it be a secret?” Her eyes are red, and her cheeks are wet, and she won’t look at Rogue. “I won’t be loud. I promise.”

Rogue looks back down at the house, chewing his lip uncertainly. He can see his parents through the kitchen window; both sitting at the table with their laptops. If they knew Abbey was up here, they’d smile and hug her and insist she come in for supper, but they would send her home afterward. 

“You’re too old to be having sleepovers with girls,” Rogue’s mom had said last time he’d wanted Abbey to stay. “Her dad isn’t comfortable with it.”

Rogue thinks that’s stupid, because they’ve been having sleepovers since they were six years old. And Abbey isn’t like any of the girls at school anyway – Rogue doesn’t want to have sleepovers with Kira or Yukino, but Abbey is different.

Abbey is Rogue’s best friend.

“Please,” Abbey says, sniffling again and pulling her knees tighter against her chest. “Dad doesn’t feel good and I don’t wanna go home. I promise I’ll be quiet.”

“Okay,” Rogue whispers, shuffling closer. “Yeah. You can always stay here.”

This time when he reaches out, Abbey lets him hug her. Rogue can feel her shaking under his arm and he pulls her closer. Something feels wrong in Rogue’s stomach and he doesn’t know how to fix it. It feels like the time they’d eaten too much popcorn at movie night and he’d almost wanted to throw up but couldn’t.

Rogue wants to ask a million questions. _Are you hurt? Why’s your dad sick? Why did you cut your hair? Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong? _

Instead he asks, “Are you hungry?”

Abbey shakes her head, but Rogue knows she’s lying. He always brings extra snacks to school because she forgets her lunch a lot, but today she wouldn’t even eat the blue fruit roll-ups that Rogue had brought to the park.

Maybe she’s getting sick, too.

They sit together for a long time, until Abbey is almost asleep against Rogue’s shoulder. When Rogue’s mom calls him in for dinner, he squeezes Abbey’s hand and promises to be back soon.

* * *

As soon as Rogue’s parents are asleep, he sneaks out the window and climbs back up into the tree house. Abbey’s asleep, but as soon as Rogue pops his head in, her eyes fly open and she sits up, backing away from him.

“Oh,” she says after a second. “Hey.”

Rogue hands her a container with leftovers in it – his mom had made kraft dinner with hot dogs, which Rogue knows is Abbey’s favorite. He also pulls up a duffel bag filled with snacks, a water bottle, his favorite sweater, and his old iPod.

“Thanks,” Abbey says softly once she’s eaten and they’re curled up along the side of the tree fort where the roof is open to the stars. Rogue’s lying on his back and Abbey’s right next to him, her head on his arm.

“It’s okay,” Rogue says, pulling up the blanket to cover both of them. “It’s always okay.” The iPod is resting on his stomach and they’re sharing headphones, listening to something soft and sad while they stare up at the constellations. “I wish you could stay here all the time.”

“Me too,” Abbey says, tipping her head and resting it against Rogue’s. “When we’re grown-ups we’ll live together, right?”

Rogue nods, reaching down and taking Abbey’s hand. “Yeah,” he says, sliding their fingers together. “We’ll have a big house with a big TV and all the Pokémon games, and we can buy ice cream all the time.”

Abbey giggles, squeezing Rogue’s hand. The sound makes his stomach feel fizzy, like the bubbles when he drinks root beer too quickly.

“You’re my favorite person,” Rogue says, and he sort of feels like crying but can’t quite figure out why.

Abbey’s quiet for a second, then he hears her whisper, “You’re my favorite person, too.”

* * *

Yukino’s mom is a stylist, so the next day they go over to her house and she helps Abbey fix her hair. It’s so choppy and uneven that most of it ends up gone, and Abbey’s left with short, blond curls that make her look like a boy.

Rogue thinks she’s never looked happier.

For a while after the night in the tree fort, things seem to go back to normal. Abbey tells Rogue that her dad got better, and she seems happy again, even though she never talks about what happened.

They spend every day together – riding their bikes and playing soccer with Yukino; playing D&D with Rufus and his brother; getting slurpees at the 7-11 down the street. Abbey smiles and laughs, and hugs Rogue a lot, and it seems like everything is going to be okay.

Halfway through summer holidays, Abbey shows up in the tree fort again. She won’t talk to Rogue, just begs him to let her stay. He can’t say no to her, so he just nods and hugs her and wishes he knew why she was crying.

Abbey starts showing up more often, and Rogue starts keeping things up in the fort. There’s a blanket and a pillow, a box of crackers, a water bottle, and his old iPod with all of Abbey’s favorite songs.

“Please don’t tell,” she whispers against him as they curl up together under the stars. “Promise, okay?” 

It doesn’t feel right, but Rogue loves Abbey, so he nods and whispers, “I promise.”

* * *

One night near the end of summer, Rogue wakes up to Abbey knocking on his window. It’s past midnight and she’s shivering outside, wearing pajama pants and a hoodie and nothing else. Rogue quickly opens the window and leads her to the bed, then lifts up his covers so she can crawl in with him. She leaves a space between them, but he can feel her trembling, so he takes her hand and squeezes it.

“What happened?” he asks softly.

Abbey shakes her head, then shuffles closer until her head is tucked under Rogue’s chin and his arm is wrapped around her. Something warm sparks in Rogue’s chest, and he pulls her close.

“I hate him,” she whispers.

“Who?” Rogue asks, even though he thinks he already knows the answer.

Abbey’s shoulders start to shake as she presses her face against Rogue’s shoulder and bunches the fabric of her shirt in her hands. Tiny, heartbroken sounds escape from her as she cries. She tries her best to hold it in, but sobs keep breaking out, and eventually she grabs the blanket and covers her face with it so that Rogue’s parents won’t hear her.

She apologizes over and over again between sobs, but Rogue doesn’t know why. It’s all she can say, and when she finally falls asleep against Rogue, all he can hear is the echo of her whispered, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _

* * *

The next morning, Rogue sits on the edge of his bed, chewing on his lip and looking over at Abbey. She’s sound asleep on her back, spread out with an arm thrown over her face. The sleeve of her shirt is pulled up, and there are bruises there that look an awful lot like fingerprints on her wrist.

Rogue knows she didn’t get them from soccer.

He lets out a frustrated breath, running his fingers through his hair as he watches Abbey sleep. She doesn’t look sad anymore, but her cheeks still have tear tracks on them. There’s a tiny smile on her face that Rogue hasn’t seen in a while.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Then he stands up and leaves the room as quietly as possible, closing the door behind him.

His mom’s in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher, and when she sees Rogue, she raises an eyebrow. “You’re up early,” she says. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Rogue doesn’t answer, just slumps down at the kitchen table and rubs his face. His mom frowns, setting down the mugs she’d been putting away and coming to sit next to him.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, stroking his hair like she used to when he was little.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks. His stomach hurts again, and he’s worried that he’s going to throw up. Abbey’s going to be so mad at him. What if she never talks to him again? But she’s hurt, and she was crying, and Rogue doesn’t know what else to do.

“You can tell me anything,” his mom says. “What’s going on?”

Rogue rubs his face. “Abbey’s in my room,” he says quietly. He can feel his mom tense beside him, but she doesn’t say anything. “She came over last night. I let her in the window, and she made me promise not to tell, but I’m scared.”

“Scared of what, honey?”

“Something’s wrong with her,” Rogue says. He feels like crying. “She said she got hurt at soccer, but she says that all the time, and her dad’s sick again so she has to sleep here, but I don’t understand why.”

“Her dad’s sick?” Rogue’s mom sounds as confused as Rogue feels. “Sick how?”

“I don’t know,” he says miserably. 

Rogue’s mom moves closer to him, reaching out and resting her hand on his arm. “Sweetheart, no matter what you tell me, I’m not going to be mad, okay?” He wants to believe her, but he’s been lying to them, and she hates it when he lies.

He finally gives in because he just wants Abbey to be okay. “She sleeps in the tree fort sometimes,” he says, looking down at his hands. “I know you said we can’t have sleepovers ‘cause she’s a girl, but she said her dad was sick and she was always sad and crying and…”

“It’s okay,” Rogue’s mom says, pulling him into a hug. She kisses his head and he starts to cry for real now. “I’m so proud of you for telling me, even though you were scared.”

“She’s gonna hate me,” Rogue whispers, wiping his face. “I promised that I wouldn’t tell but yesterday she was crying so much, and I don’t like it when she’s sad, and now she’s never gonna talk to me again.”

“Sometimes we promise things because we think it will help the people we care about,” his mom says, “but you’re doing the right thing by telling me the truth.”

“It doesn’t feel good,” Rogue says, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.

“I know.” His mom pulls him closer and sighs, then asks, “is Abbey still sleeping?”

Rogue nods, looking down the hallway to his bedroom. “Please don’t get mad at her,” he whispers.

“Oh, honey,” his mom says. “I’m not mad at either of you. This isn’t your fault or hers. I know this is confusing, but your dad and I are going to help, okay? And Abbey can stay here for as long as she needs to.”

Rogue’s about to ask his mom what’s really happening, why Abbey is so sad all the time, but they both hear a banging sound from his room. His mom jumps up and runs down the hallway, and Rogue follows her.

His bedroom window is open, curtains blowing in the summer wind, and Abbey is gone. 


	4. devastate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terrified of Rogue's parents finding out, Sting runs back home. But home isn't safe, and Sting's running out of options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for child abuse - scene isn't explicitly described, but injuries as a result are (from child's POV)**

dev· as· tate | \ ˈde-və-ˌstāt  
: to bring to ruin or desolation by violent action

**.**

**ii**   
** summer**   
** age eleven**

**.**

_He’d promised. _

Sting runs the whole way home from Rogue’s house. He’s not wearing shoes, but he doesn’t even feel the rocks or pavement or the tiny pieces of broken glass that cut his feet. The sun is already hot, and by the time Sting can see his driveway, his hair is sticky with sweat and he can barely breathe.

Sting feels sick when he looks up to see his bedroom window closed. He’d left it open when he’d snuck out last night.

His dad knows.

Sting looks back down the street toward Rogue’s house, half-expecting to see Rogue running after him, yelling for him to come back. Sting’s stomach hurts and he squeezes his eyes shut to stop himself from crying. Why did Rogue tell? He’d promised to keep it secret.

The front door of the house bangs open and Sting jumps, wishing he could hide. But he’s in the middle of the road, barefoot and dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and his dad is there, staring out at him with blank eyes.

“Get in here.”

Sting obeys quickly, looking down at the ground as he slips past his father into the house. His hands are shaking and for a second, he considers running upstairs and locking himself in the bathroom. But his dad isn’t yelling, and maybe it won’t be that bad.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly as his dad slams the front door. “I went to Rogue’s house. You were asleep and I didn’t wanna wake you up, and—”

He trails off because his dad isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring at the wall behind Sting’s head, eyes almost black, worse than they were last night when he’d yelled and smashed his beer bottle to pieces against the wall. Pieces of glass are still littered around the living room floor.

“Dad, please,” Sting whispers, but his dad can’t hear him, so Sting squeezes his eyes shut and backs against the wall, arms up to cover his face. Maybe if he’s quiet, it won’t hurt.

* * *

It does hurt.

Sting presses himself against the wall of his closet, wiping tears away as the room swims in front of his eyes. It’s worse than the time he fell off the swing at the playground and landed on his back so hard he couldn’t breathe. He can’t feel his hand and his tummy hurts and he can’t stop crying.

_Don’t be such a baby. _

Sting’s not a baby. He’s not, but no matter how many times he whispers it, the tears won’t stop falling. A sob tries to break out of him, but he doesn’t let it, pulling his knees to his chest and biting the inside of his cheek.

When the wail of police sirens fills the air outside, Sting’s heart nearly stops.

_Go away, _he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and curling up tighter, willing himself to be as tiny as possible. Maybe they won’t find him. Maybe his dad will say that Sting’s at Rogue’s house, and that the broken glass was an accident. 

But Rogue’s parents know, now, and Rogue’s house isn’t safe anymore either.

Sting bites his lip, torn between pushing the closet door shut and not moving. If they don’t find him, they can’t make him leave, and it’ll be okay. Dad will say sorry and they’ll go for ice cream and he’ll let Sting get the one with chocolate chips that’s his favorite.

There’s a knock on the front door and Sting whimpers, pressing his forehead to his knees. The floor’s swaying under him, like the boat he went on with Zach last year, and Sting thinks he might throw up.

“Don’t,” he whispers, wiping at his face with the hand that doesn’t hurt. The front door swings open and there are voices he doesn’t recognize, people coming into the house, and Sting can’t breathe because they’re going to see. They’ll see and they’ll think that his dad’s bad, and they’re wrong.

Someone makes their way up the stairs. A lady’s voice calls Sting’s name, getting closer to his room, and he holds his breath, trying to be as still as possible.

He’s not good at much, but he’s good at being small and quiet.

“Abbey?” The lady’s voice gets closer and she pushes open Sting’s bedroom door. He can see her shoes and the red stripe up the side of her pants. “Abbey, sweetheart, where are you? We’re here to help.”

_I don’t need help, _Sting thinks. _Go away, go away, go away. _

The lady’s feet get closer and closer, and when she crouches down and spots him in the corner of the closet, Sting wishes he could melt into the floor and disappear.

“I found her,” the lady says into the radio on her shirt. His dad has one just like it and he uses it to help people because he’s good. Sting just needs to be quieter and everything will be okay.

“Go away,” he whispers.

“Do you think you can come out of there for me?” the lady asks, kneeling down on the floor and reaching out her hand. “My name’s Kelly. It looks like you’re hurt.”

Sting shakes his head, but the movement makes the floor spin again, and he whimpers.

“I’m here to help you,” Kelly says, and her voice is so soft that for a second, Sting thinks it might be okay to listen. She moves toward him and he flinches back, making a scared, angry noise that he can’t control. “It’s okay,” Kelly says, putting her hands out as she moves to sit cross-legged next to Sting. “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe. Can I take a look at you? You’re bleeding.”

Sting can’t answer. All the words are trapped in his chest and if he doesn’t say them, maybe his dad won’t get in trouble.

Kelly talks into her radio again. “We need an EMT upstairs, second bedroom on the left.” She looks back at Sting and explains, “An EMT is someone from the ambulance. They’re going to help you out, okay?”

Sting brings his hand up to the spot on his head that had hit the coffee table. It hurts, and it’s wet and sticky and it makes him want to throw up.

Suddenly there’s shouting downstairs, and a loud crash, and Sting’s dad starts yelling things like, “fucking assholes,” and, “get the fuck off me, gonna kick your goddamn ass,” and, “get the hell out of my house.”

Sting hates it when he says those words. They’re angry words – words that mean Sting’s done something wrong and it’s too late to make it right.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Hey, look at me,” Kelly says gently, holding her hand out between the two of them but not touching Sting. “I know you’re scared, but I’m here, and it’s going to be okay.”

“Why are they hurting him?” Sting asks, and he can’t stop the tears that stream down his face. The shouting gets louder and the sound tumbles through Sting’s head, making him dizzy. His face feels hot and his fingers are numb, and he just wants his dad. “Leave him alone,” he whispers.

“I know you’re confused,” Kelly says, “but it’s not safe for you here right now.”

Sting’s arm aches, and he wants so badly to stop crying but he’s not in control of his body anymore. He hates this, hates hurting but hates it worse when the hurting stops because then he can’t feel anything at all.

“P-please, I…”

There’s another crash and more swearing, and before Sting can think, he shuffles closer to Kelly. Everything’s getting blurry and he’s so, so scared.

“It’s okay,” Kelly says softly as Sting presses himself to her side. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did,” Sting whispers. “I’m sorry.”

The crashing downstairs gets louder and then stops, suddenly. The front door slams shut and it’s quiet, now – too quiet. Someone else appears at Sting’s bedroom door and for a second, Sting thinks it’s his dad. Before he can think, he curls up against Kelly, pressing his face into her shoulder as she wraps an arm around him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears still streaking down his cheeks. It’s like they’re the only words he knows.

“Shhh,” Kelly says gently as the other person crouches down outside the closet. Sting can’t open his eyes. His stomach hurts because he knows it’s not his dad, and he doesn’t know if that makes him feel angry or safe.

“Abbey, this is Chris,” Kelly says, nudging him until he looks at the man with the first aid kit. He’s got gloves on, and he’s holding out a piece of gauze.

“We’re gonna put this on your head,” he says gently. “Is that okay? We need to stop the bleeding.”

Sting’s heart is beating so fast that he can barely breathe, and when Chris reaches out slowly to put the gauze on his head, Sting flinches back into Kelly.

“It’s okay,” she says softly, and for a second he thinks of his mom, rocking him to sleep after a bad dream. It hurts when Chris touches his head, and everything in Sting’s stomach suddenly reappears as he leans away from Kelly and throws up.

“I don’t feel good,” he mumbles, and he can’t stop crying. He hates being sick, hates the taste in the back of his throat, hates the way the room won’t stop spinning. He throws up again and Kelly rubs his back, holding the gauze against his head.

Chris starts saying a bunch of words that Sting doesn’t understand, but he does know what a concussion is. Rogue’s brother Gajeel had one once from football.

“I hit my head,” Sting says, wincing as he coughs around the taste of vomit in his throat. “It hurts.”

“I know, sweetie,” Kelly says gently. “We’re going to the hospital, okay?”

Sting wobbles back against her and before he can argue, she slips an arm under his legs and lifts him as she stands. He wants to struggle, wants to tell her that he’s fine, that he can walk, that’s he’s not a baby. But he’s exhausted and dizzy and she feels warm and safe, so he leans against her as she follows Chris out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

“We’re going to keep you safe,” Kelly says, turning Sting away from the living room as they walk to the front door. Everything’s broken, and all he can see is gentle sunlight, and shards of broken glass. 


	5. fragment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven-year-old Sting feels small and terrified, and his whole world is falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for description of injuries from abuse and talk of abuse

frag·ment | \ ˈfrag-mənt  
noun  
**: **a part broken off, detached, or incomplete

**.**

**iii  
****summer**  
**age eleven**

**.**

The hospital is noisy and cold. Kelly tries to set Sting down, but he’s scared and confused, and he clings to her, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. When they take Sting’s sweater off and put it in a plastic bag to take away, Kelly drapes her jacket over his shoulders to keep him warm.

The nurse gives Sting medicine that makes everything stop hurting so they can put stitches in his head, and after they x-ray his arm, Kelly lets him sit on her lap again. He knows he’s too big, but he curls up against her anyway, alternating between crying and drifting in and out of sleep.

He’s just waking up when he hears Kelly talking to someone else.

“He broke her arm.” Kelly’s voice isn’t angry, it’s sad. “She needed thirty-five stitches.” The other person says something muffled that Sting doesn’t catch. “She’s got an uncle in Saint Portage – hour and a half north of here,” Kelly says. “Did someone get ahold of him?”

“Uncle Wes?” Sting asks, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He’s still on Kelly’s lap, but they’re sitting on the edge of a bed in a hospital room now. 

“Yeah, honey,” Kelly says. “We’re gonna see if he can come get you so you can stay with him for a bit.” She smiles, then gestures to the woman sitting across from her. “This is Ginette.”

“Hey, Abbey,” Ginette says. She crouches down next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Sting doesn’t answer, just turns and presses his face back into Kelly’s shoulder. His arm is starting to itch under the cast.

“Ginette wants to ask you a few questions,” Kelly says gently. She brushes Sting’s hair out of his eyes, then gestures to the bandage that runs all the way from his eyebrow to behind his ear. “Can you tell us how this happened?”

Sting shakes his head. He doesn’t want to answer their questions. He’s sleepy and scared and still a little bit sick.

“Where’s my dad?” he asks, voice muffled by Kelly’s shirt.

Kelly sighs. “He can’t be here,” she says, and Sting can feel her and Ginette giving him the look that he hates. It makes him feel small and stupid and alone.

“Why not?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. Nobody has said it out loud yet, and that means maybe it’s not true.

“Abbey,” Kelly says gently. Sting scowls at the name. He hates it, except when his dad uses it because he calls Sting his little bee, and it means he’s not angry.

“Why?” Sting asks again.

“Because he hurt you,” Kelly says. “The police have to talk to him.”

“He is police,” Sting says stubbornly. “It was an accident.”

Kelly sighs and Sting glares at her, trying to give her the same look as his dad – the look that makes Sting afraid. He wants to scare Kelly until she goes away and his dad comes back.

Except… he doesn’t.

The hard, angry expression on his face melts into tears again, and he curls back up into her. She says something to Ginette that Sting doesn’t catch, then hugs Sting tightly. Footsteps move toward the door, and then the two of them are alone again.

They sit for a while in silence while Sting tries to catch his breath, but he just feels so lost and confused. His tears are turning to quiet sobs and he feels like he’s losing control, but then Kelly asks, “do you like Pokémon?”

The question pulls Sting out of his racing thoughts and he blinks, sniffling. “Yeah.” 

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“Squirtle.”

“Ooh, a classic,” Kelly says. “I like Eevee best.”

Sting nods and sits up, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. “She has lots of evolutions,” he says. “I like Jolteon ‘cause he’s electric type but Rogue says Umbreon is better.”

“Who’s Rogue?” Kelly asks gently.

“He’s my best...” Sting hesitates as a mix of confusion and anger washes over him. Part of him misses Rogue so much it hurts, and he wants to ask Kelly if they can call him. Rogue could bring his DS and they could sit on the bed together and play Pokémon and Kirby and Mario Kart. 

But Rogue told when he promised he wouldn’t, and Sting’s angry at him.

“Your best friend?” Kelly asks. Sting shrugs and she sighs. “Why don’t you try to sleep while we wait to hear from your uncle?” she suggests, nudging him off her lap and onto the bed. He’s so tired that he can’t argue, and when he curls up into a ball, Kelly squeezes his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” she promises.

Sting watches her drag one of the chairs close to the door, then settle herself in it so that she can see the hallway. When she turns back to Sting and smiles, he finally lets his eyes close and drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Sting wakes up when the bed dips, and he sits up immediately, scrambling backward. 

“It’s okay.” The voice is deep and familiar, and when Sting peeks up, he sees Uncle Wes sitting near him. Sting hasn’t seen him in a long time, but he still looks the same, with his wild white hair and big beard. There’s a vague recollection in Sting’s mind of strong hugs and piggybacks and watching Star Trek together.

“I’m sorry,” Uncle Wes says, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Sting’s frozen, slowly coming back to himself. He still kind of wants to throw up.

“How’s your head?” Uncle Wes asks. Sting reaches up to touch the bandage that covers the stitches under his hair. It still hurts, and so does his arm. He looks down at the blanket and bites his tongue, so he doesn’t start to cry again. 

“Are you ready to go home?”

The voice isn’t Uncle Wes’, and Sting looks up to see Kelly standing in the doorway. A funny feeling fills his stomach and he pulls his knees up against his chest, wishing she’d come sit with him instead of Uncle Wes. As if reading his mind, she moves toward the bed, crouching down next to it and reaching out for his hand. He lets her take it.

“Abbey, can you look at me?” Her voice is gentle, and it makes his stomach hurt less.

“I wanna stay with you,” he whispers, shifting away from Uncle Wes. “Please.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says gently, reaching out and brushing his hair out of his face. He shuffles closer and she moves up onto the bed, sitting down and letting him cuddle up next to her. “You can’t stay with me, I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” Sting knows he’s being ridiculous, but he doesn’t care. He peeks up at Uncle Wes, who’s giving him a look that Sting doesn’t understand.

Kelly sighs and holds Sting close. “I have a lot of other people to help,” she says. “You’re going to be safe with your uncle. I’m gonna come visit in a couple days and talk to you some more about what happened, okay?”

“Don’t wanna,” Sting mumbles, rubbing his face. His skin is tight from crying.

“I know,” Kelly says. “It sucks. And I know you love your dad, and that this is really confusing for you. But my job is to keep you safe, right?” She pulls away and tips up Sting’s chin until he’s looking at her. “Right now, your dad isn’t a safe person to be around.”

Sting looks at Kelly, then over at Uncle Wes, and whispers, “why?”

“You know wh—”

“No, I—I know, h-he…” Sting’s crying again, trying to force out words around the tears. “Why d-did he… I s-said I was sorry, a-and I d-didn’t mean to make him angry.”

“Oh, Abbey,” Uncle Wes says sadly, shifting a little closer. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I t-tried to be quiet,” Sting whispers, pulling away from Kelly and wiping his face with his sleeve. “I didn’t m-mean to, I don’t know why h-he was so mad, I’m sorry.” A sob breaks out of him and he shakes from the force of it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Uncle Wes says, and when he holds out a hand to Sting, Sting gives in and lets Uncle Wes hug him. Strong arms wrap around him, but they’re not scary, they’re safe. Uncle Wes smells like peppermint and shaving cream, and he holds Sting close as they both cry.

“Then why?” Sting whispers. He wants to say that it was an accident, that dad didn’t mean it, that sometimes, he’s fine and they’re happy. But Sting’s so tired, and there’s an ache in his chest that’s half sadness, half anger. “I hate him,” he whispers, and he’s not sure if it’s true.

“I know,” Uncle Wes says, gently running his hand up and down Sting’s back. “I know, and I’m so sorry I didn’t come get you sooner. But you’re going to be safe now, okay? I love you.”

Sting doesn’t answer. The tears are slowing into quiet hiccups, and he’s exhausted again. He just wants to go back to sleep, because then he doesn’t have to think.

“You’re going to be okay,” Kelly says, squeezing Sting’s hand before she stands up from the bed. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay,” Sting says softly, closing his eyes and leaning into Uncle Wes.

“C’mon,” Uncle Wes says. He stands and lifts Sting up, even though he’s too old to be carried. “Let’s get you home.”

* * *

Sting hasn’t been to Uncle Wes’ house in a long time. The last time he’d slept over here he’d been six years old – back when Grammie was alive, and they used to spend family Christmases here. The guest room is the same as it was then, with pink sheets and a blanket with stars on it.

“We’re going to get your things tomorrow,” Uncle Wes says as Sting sits down on the edge of the bed. The anger and sadness he’d felt at the hospital dissipated during the long drive here, and now Sting can’t feel anything except exhaustion.

“Okay,” he says dully, staring at the carpet.

“Do you want some more Tylenol?”

Sting shakes his head. “Tired,” he whispers, leaning away from Uncle Wes and curling up on the bed. He hears a soft sigh, and then something brown and fluffy appears in his field of vision. It’s a teddy bear – he recognizes it as a Christmas gift from Grammie when he was little.

“I thought this might help you sleep,” Uncle Wes says.

Anger flares up through Sting again and he pushes the bear away. “I’m not a baby,” he whispers, rolling over and facing the wall. His dad’s words echo in his ears over and over – _stop crying, stop being such a baby, grow the fuck up. _

There’s a sigh behind Sting, then soft footsteps making their way away from the bed. The door clicks shut, and Sting lets out a harsh breath. It’s wet and thick and full of tears, and he buries his face in the pillow so that Uncle Wes won’t hear him.

After a second, Sting rolls over and stares at the stuffed bear through blurry, tear-filled eyes. Then he grabs it, pulls it to his chest, and cries himself to sleep.


	6. casualty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting moves in with Uncle Wes.

ca·su·al·ty | \ ˈka-zhəl-tē  
noun  
**: **a person or thing injured, lost, or destroyed

**.**

**iv**   
** summer**   
** age eleven**

**.**

When Sting wakes up the first day after the hospital, he stays in bed under the blanket for a long time before sitting up and rubbing his eyes. The room is dark, and when he looks down and sees the teddy next to his pillow, he scowls and throws it on the floor.

Sting curls up again and drifts in and out of sleep until there’s a quiet knock on the door. He blinks at the clock – it’s 10:37 a.m.

“Abbey, would you like breakfast?”

Uncle Wes’ voice is gentle – Sting remembers him as being loud and booming, but Sting’s never been scared of him. Now, he’s not sure. Uncle Wes is bigger than Dad, and stronger, but Sting feels safe with him.

“Abbey?”

Sting pushes himself slowly out of the bed and wobbles, catching himself on the side table as a wave of dizziness washes over him. The alarm clock cord catches on his fingers and it falls to the floor with a bang.

_No, no, no. _

The door flies open and Sting flinches, falling backward onto the floor and bringing up his arms to cover his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, tensing in anticipation of a loud voice or angry hands.

Instead, Uncle Wes crouches down next to Sting and says, “it’s okay, it was an accident,” in a gentle voice. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “I didn’t mean to scare you – I thought you’d fallen.”

“I’ll fix it,” Sting says, peeking up at Uncle Wes. He doesn’t look angry, but Sting’s not completely convinced. Maybe he’s saving it for later.

“It’s not broken,” Uncle Wes says, picking up the clock and examining it, then setting it back on the side table. “And even if it was, it’s okay. Are you hurt?”

Uncle Wes reaches out a hand and Sting hesitantly accepts it, letting Uncle Wes pull him to his feet. His arm aches and his head pounds, sharp throbs that slam against the inside of his temples. Other things hurt, too – a scrape on his back, a bruise on his shin, the bottoms of his feet where he’d run over the rocks on his way home from Rogue’s house.

_Rogue, _he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. Hurt and anger fill his chest, and he holds his breath to keep himself from crying.

“You must be hungry,” Uncle Wes says, interrupting Sting’s angry, confused thoughts. “Most of my cereal is boring old-man stuff, but I think I’ve got some Reese Puffs hidden in the back of the pantry.”

Sting looks up, not saying anything but following Uncle Wes out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. A bright beam of sunlight falls across the room, making it seem warm and inviting. Sting lets Uncle Wes help him up onto one of the bar stools next to the counter. He winces – everything hurts, and it’s harder than he expected to do things with a broken arm.

Sting’s eyes roam over the pictures on the fridge while Uncle Wes gets the cereal from the pantry. There’s a photo of Sting in grade one with chipped teeth and freckles and curly hair. There’s another of Grammie sitting with Wes and Dad when they were little boys – Sting looks away from that one quickly.

Most of the other photos are of Uncle Wes with a man in a wheelchair that Sting doesn’t recognize. He’s got short black hair and dark brown skin, and a soft, kind smile. In one picture, Uncle Wes is kissing him.

Something funny flips in Sting’s stomach.

“That’s Muhammad,” Uncle Wes says, setting down a bowl of cereal in front of Sting. It’s followed by a glass of orange juice, and when Sting looks down at Uncle Wes’ hand, he sees a wedding ring.

“Is he your husband?” Sting asks. Yukino has two moms, and a lot of the kids in their classes teased her about it. Sting had told them to shut up, once, and they’d called him names too.

“He was,” Uncle Wes says in a soft, sad voice. “He died last year.”

“Oh,” Sting says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Uncle Wes says, squeezing Sting’s shoulder and sitting down across from him. His bowl of cereal is twice the size of Sting’s, and he digs into it right away. “Muhammad had a sickness that made his heart very weak.” He looks fondly back at the picture. “We spent a good few years together – I’m glad we had what time we did.”

“I didn’t know,” Sting says softly, poking at his cereal. “Dad didn’t…”

“Your father didn’t approve,” Uncle Wes explains. He takes a sip of his coffee and studies Sting over the top of the mug. It takes Sting a minute to realize that it’s a silent question.

“I do,” he says quickly, looking down at his bowl. “I mean, it’s… fine, I don’t…” He scowls at his spoon, trying to figure out why he suddenly wants to tell Uncle Wes. He’s about to say, _I think I like boys too, _when he realizes that Uncle Wes thinks he’s a girl.

Sting has never told anybody that he’s a boy – not even Rogue, who was his best friend.

Uncle Wes sits up, reaching over and grabbing the bottle of Tylenol from the counter. “How’s your arm?” he asks, and as soon as it had appeared, the tension in the room is gone. Sting shrugs, staring down at the cast. They’d asked him what color he’d wanted, but he’d been too overwhelmed to answer, so it’s pink.

He doesn’t answer the question, but he takes the pills from Uncle Wes and swallows them down with his orange juice. After a minute, he asks, “is dad going to jail?”

Uncle Wes sighs, and it almost feels like he’s going to take Sting’s hand but decides against it. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. “Officer Kelly is going to come by in a couple days to ask you some more questions, but your father is being held by the police right now.”

Sting doesn’t say anything. His feet don’t touch the ground, so he kicks his legs back and forth.

“Did he do this to you?” Uncle Wes asks gently. Sting keeps his eyes on the table, but he knows Uncle Wes is talking about his arm and his head.

He wants so badly to say no, to tell them that they’re all wrong because his dad loves him. But yesterday was the worst it had ever been, and Sting’s still terrified.

He nods.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Uncle Wes says, sighing sadly. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could have been there.”

Sting shrugs.

The kitchen is quiet for a few minutes as they finish eating. Uncle Wes takes their dishes and piles them in the sink, wordlessly offering Sting more juice before putting it back in the fridge. Sting stares out the window – there’s a planter outside full of bright flowers, and an apple tree beyond that.

“I’m not going back?” Sting asks after a while. Uncle Wes settles down across from him again, leaning forward on his arms, but Sting doesn’t look at him. “To dad,” Sting clarifies. “I can’t go back to live with him.”

Uncle Wes shakes his head. “No,” he says gently. “I know this is overwhelming, but you’re going to be staying here now. Officer Kelly is working with someone called a social worker – do you know what that is?”

Sting shakes his head.

“It’s someone who helps people – and families – solve problems,” Uncle Wes says. “They’re going to help us with lots of things, and one of those things is figuring out if you’re going to be staying here for good.”

“Do I have to go to a new school?”

“Probably.”

“Oh.” Sting thinks he should be angry about that, but the space where he’s usually mad or sad is filled with nothing right now. He rubs his face, then looks up at Uncle Wes.

“It’s a lot to think about,” Uncle Wes says gently. “Officer Kelly will explain more when she comes to visit, okay?”

Sting doesn’t want to cry again, but he can feel his throat doing that funny thing that he hates where he can’t quite breathe. None of this seems real, and he can’t tell if he’s angry or scared or relieved. Maybe all of them at the same time.

“I need to go to the grocery store,” Uncle Wes says, pulling Sting out of his thoughts. “Do you want to come with me? I’m not sure what kind of food you like, so maybe you can help me pick out some things.”

Sting chews his lip uncertainly, looking back down the hallway to the guest bedroom.

“If you’d rather stay here, that’s okay,” Uncle Wes reassures him. “We don’t have to go anywhere. I can ask Helen next door to pick us up some things, or we can go later when you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah,” Sting says quietly. He still doesn’t quite feel real, and leaving the house seems like too much. If he goes outside, he’ll see the rest of the world going on like nothing happened, and he’s not sure he can handle that quite yet.

“Okay,” Uncle Wes says. “Why don’t you have a shower, and then we can find a movie or a TV show to watch?”

Showering is hard because Sting can’t get the bandage on his stitches wet, so he ends up wetting his hair in the sink and rinsing it with a cup instead. Standing under the hot water feels nice, though, as long as he keeps the plastic bag wrapped around his cast.

Eventually he’s clean and dressed in a set of pajamas that are size too big for him. Sting curls up in the corner of the couch and wraps a knitted blanket around him, watching as Uncle Wes flips through channels on the TV. Eventually he hands the remote to Sting.

“I have no idea what kind of shows you like,” he admits.

Sting flicks to the cartoon channel and eventually finds an episode of Pokémon. He’s seen it before, but when the theme song starts to play, it relaxes a little bit of the anger and confusion in his chest.

After a few minutes, Sting realizes that Uncle Wes is still sitting on the couch with him. He’s far enough away that he couldn’t reach Sting without standing up, but he’s still there, leaning back with his arms behind his head and watching the show.

“You don’t have to stay,” Sting says, looking back at the TV. Guilt washes over him, suddenly – Uncle Wes probably has better things to do than sit with Sting and watch some stupid TV show.

Uncle Wes looks over at him. “I want to,” he says simply.

Sting frowns but doesn’t say anything else – just burrows into the blanket and listens to Team Rocket scheme about kidnapping Ash’s newest addition to his team.


	7. dysphoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting's slowly adjusting to his new life with Uncle Wes, but he's still not who he wants to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for major dysphoria and some self-harming behaviors

dys·pho·ria | \ dis-ˈfȯr-ē-ə  
noun  
**: **a state of feeling very unhappy, uneasy, or dissatisfied

**.**

**v**   
** autumn**   
** age eleven**

**.**

Kelly comes by a few days after the hospital, like she said she would, and she and Sting sit out in the back yard on the porch swing while she asks questions Sting doesn’t want to answer. She talks a lot about big things like court and guilty pleas and prison, and Sting just nods and picks at his nails.

“Do you like staying with your Uncle?” Kelly asks. Sting doesn’t answer at first, just kicks his feet under the swing. “Do you feel safe?”

As soon as Sting nods, it feels like a betrayal. He knows his dad is far away and part of his heart hurts because it’s his fault. No matter how many times Kelly and Uncle Wes tell him it’s not, he doesn’t believe them.

If he’d listened, he’d still be with his dad.

Sometimes, Sting wants that. He misses his bedroom, the view of the garden, the path he took to get to school. He misses his favorite teacher, Mrs Dempsey, and the way she would let him stay after school to help her shelve the books when he didn’t want to go home.

Mostly, he misses Rogue. He’s tempted to ask Kelly if she can talk to him, but every time Sting thinks about it, all he can hear is Rogue telling his mom when he promised he wouldn’t.

_Something’s wrong with her. _

_Her dad’s sick again so she had to sleep here. _

_I don’t understand why. _

“I know this must be confusing for you,” Kelly says gently, and she doesn’t mention it when Sting shuffles over and leans against her. “It’s a big change. Is there anything you need to make it easier?”

Sting shrugs. Uncle Wes took him shopping yesterday and they bought new clothes that fit and don’t have holes in them. At first Uncle Wes had pointed out things like patterned leggings and bright shirts, but when he’d seen Sting looking over at the boy’s section, he’d smiled and guided Sting over to the jeans and hoodies.

Watching the price go up and up at the till had made Sting’s stomach hurt. He’d spent the afternoon thinking about the piggybank he left at home where he’d saved up his money from taking dad’s bottles to the depot.

“I don’t have my money,” he says quietly to Kelly. “Uncle Wes paid lots for my clothes.”

“That’s okay, sweetie,” Kelly says. “You don’t have to pay for your clothes. That’s a grown-up job.”

“But…” Sting sighs in frustration, dropping his forehead to his knees. “I feel stupid.”

“How come?” Kelly asks, and Sting shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and hugging his legs closer to his chest. “You’re not stupid, Abbey.”

_Don’t call me that, _Sting thinks. It hurts when she says that name, but he doesn’t know how to tell her that it doesn’t fit.

“I know things are different here,” Kelly continues, leaning back against the swing. Sting peeks up at her, then leans his head against her shoulder. It feels safe here. Safer than anywhere else, anyway. “You don’t have to worry about things like that anymore, okay? Money, or food, or anything.”

“I don’t understand,” Sting says, rubbing his eyes.

Kelly sighs, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. “I know, kiddo,” she says. “But I promise it’s going to be okay.”

* * *

Living with Uncle Wes is strange at first. He’s always awake when Sting gets up, drinking his coffee and doing his crossword in the kitchen, smiling and asking Sting how he slept. There’s always food in the fridge, and Sting is allowed to have it any time he wants. When he tries to clean, Uncle Wes helps him – sorts the clothes, puts the dishes away, mops after Sting sweeps.

“I can do it,” Sting says quietly one day while they’re folding laundry. Uncle Wes just smiles him and takes the next shirt out of the basket.

“I know you can,” he says. “But I can help you.”

Sting frowns at him. It doesn’t feel right. “I don’t need help,” he insists. “I can do all of it, you don’t have to…” He trails off when Uncle Wes raises an eyebrow. “I can cook stuff, too,” Sting says quickly, and he can’t figure out why his hands are suddenly shaking.

“Abbey,” Uncle Wes says gently, setting down the shirt and sitting down at the table next to Sting. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

“But…” Sting stares at his hands. He can do it all – cook food, do the dishes, use the washer and dryer. He’s good at those things, and he doesn’t understand why Uncle Wes won’t let him do them. Maybe Sting’s not doing it the way Uncle Wes likes.

“Having you around is wonderful,” Uncle Wes says, reaching out and taking Sting’s hand. Sting tenses but doesn’t pull away. “And I’m very proud of you for being able to take care of yourself so well.” 

“Then why—”

“Abbey, you’re eleven,” Uncle Wes says. Sting wants to cry, but he doesn’t know why.

“I’m not a baby,” he whispers. He’s not. He can get stains out of the laundry, and cook scrambled eggs, and unload the dishwasher without making any noise.

“I know you aren’t, sweetie,” Uncle Wes says, shaking his head. “You’re so grown up. But you don’t always have to be. It’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around.”

Sting’s cheeks flush hot and he holds his breath to keep himself from crying. He doesn’t need anybody to take care of him – not his dad, not Kelly, not Rogue’s parents, not Uncle Wes.

Sting doesn’t need anybody but himself.

* * *

Schools starts two weeks after the hospital. The cut on Sting’s head is still healing and his arm’s still in a cast, and when the kids in his new class ask what happened, he tells them he fell off his skateboard. The boys all think it’s cool that a girl skateboards, and all Sting can think is, _I’m not a girl. I’m like you. _

Despite that, things start to get better. A month goes by, then two, then six, and Uncle Wes doesn’t yell or drink or throw anything. When he finds the hoard of food that Sting has hidden in his dresser drawer, he doesn’t get angry, just reminds Sting that he can take food from the fridge or pantry any time he needs. When Sting insists on cooking supper, Uncle Wes thanks him, then helps do the dishes afterward.

Eventually it starts feeling normal. They do things together like going to movies and riding bikes, and Uncle Wes even gets Sting a laptop so he can play Minecraft with his new friends from school. Uncle Wes is there every day when Sting gets home, smiling and asking how Sting’s day was while he helps Sting with his math homework.

When Sting turns twelve, Uncle Wes bakes him a cake and takes him out for dinner, just the two of them, at a fancy restaurant. When they get home and Sting starts to cry, Uncle Wes just hugs him and tells him that he loves him over and over again.

And then, just when Sting’s finally starting to feel okay, it all falls apart.

* * *

A month after Sting’s twelfth birthday, he wakes up to his sheets covered in blood and a sticky feeling between his legs. It takes him a minute, but when he realizes what’s going on, he feels like he’s going to be sick. He knew it was going to happen – they had health class at school and had to watch a stupid movie about bodies and changes and all the things that terrify him. But he’s not a girl, doesn’t want to be a girl, and this can’t be happening to him.

He tries to hide it from Uncle Wes, but he can’t. Uncle Wes is calm and kind, washing Sting’s bedding and buying him pads and giving him a heating pack when it hurts so much he thinks he’s going to puke.

That afternoon, Sting barricades himself in his room, pulling his dresser over to block his door so Uncle Wes can’t get in. He hides in the closet, pressing himself back into the corner and crying. It starts out as small whimpers, but works up to loud, wracking sobs that tear through his body and ache, deep in his chest. He’s wrong, this is wrong, and he wishes and wishes for another body that fits.

Eventually he throws up from crying so hard, but that just makes it worse, and after that Uncle Wes takes the door off its hinges so can get into the room. He sits down on the floor near Sting, not saying anything, just crossing his legs and waiting patiently. Sting presses himself further into the corner and shakes his head, digging his nails into his arms until he feels blood under his fingertips.

“Abbey,” Uncle Wes says gently, moving closer to the closet. “I don’t want to touch you if you don’t want me to, but I can’t let you hurt yourself.”

“Go away,” Sting whispers, jerking his head up and wincing when he hits it against the wall. Pain sparks through to his temples and clears the frustrated haze in his mind, so he does it again, and again, until Uncle Wes pulls him close and wraps a hand around the back of his head. “Stop it!” Sting yells, pushing hard against Uncle Wes’ chest. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

“I can’t,” Uncle Wes says sadly, hugging Sting tightly to his chest. “Part of me loving you means I have to keep you safe, even from yourself.”

“Let me go!” Sting shouts, twisting desperately in Uncle Wes’ arms. He hits Uncle Wes’ chest and tries to kick at him, but Uncle Wes just holds him closer.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pressing his cheek to Sting’s hair. “I want to help, sweetheart. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“No!” Sting screams, shoving harder at Uncle Wes’ chest, but he’s too strong and Sting is so small and stupid and wrong, wrong, wrong. “I hate you, let me go!”

“Abbey, it’s—”

“Don’t call me that!” A loud, aching sob bursts from Sting’s throat and he gives up, slumping against Uncle Wes’ shoulder and crying. “Don’t… it’s n-not, pl-please, I don’t want… I c-can’t…”

“It’s okay,” Uncle Wes says, loosening his hold on Sting and rubbing his hand up and down Sting’s back. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not right,” Sting whispers, hot tears dripping down his cheeks and leaving dark, damp circles on Uncle Wes’ shirt.

“What’s not right?” Uncle Wes asks, and Sting can’t hold it back anymore.

“I’m not a girl,” he says, voice breaking, and when Uncle Wes doesn’t freeze or flinch, Sting grips his shirt tightly and doesn’t let go. “I’m not, I don’t w-want to, I’m a b-boy, pl-please—”

“Okay,” Uncle Wes murmurs, kissing Sting’s temple and pulling Sting into his lap. He’s warm and gentle and safe, and Sting is suddenly exhausted.

“Okay?” he repeats uncertainly through the tears as the tight, hot knots of anger dissolve into a heavy weariness.

“Yes,” Uncle Wes says gently, “yes, of course it’s okay. You’re okay. I love you. You’re safe.”

Everything Sting’s been holding in his body suddenly dissipates – years of tension and fear and uncertainty rushing out of him and leaving him feeling like wet paper, ready to tear at the smallest touch. He trembles against Uncle Wes, who holds him gently, kissing his forehead and reassuring him that it’s going to be okay.

Sting’s not sure he believes it, but he’s too tired to be afraid.


	8. fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting's trying to move on with his life, but he can't stop wondering why his dad hurt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for flashback to physical abuse

frac·ture | \ ˈfrak-chər  
noun  
: the act or process of breaking or the state of being broken

** . **

**vi**  
**spring**  
**age thirteen**

** . **

A few weeks into the summer after grade eight, Sting wakes up to shouting.

He yawns, sitting up and rubbing his face as he tries to pick out who is saying what. It sounds like Uncle Wes, but Sting’s never heard him yell before, so it seems unlikely. Sting quickly pulls on a sweater, then cracks the door open and peeks down the stairs.

It _is_ Uncle Wes. He’s standing in the front entrance, talking who whoever is outside. He’s not yelling anymore, but Sting can still make out what he’s saying.

“Get out,” Uncle Wes says. His voice is hard and fierce in a way Sting’s never heard before. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing.” There’s a pause, and he adds, “I don’t care if you’re my brother.”

Sting freezes, fingers wrapped around the banister as the words slowly sink in. He’s about to take a step forward when the voice on the other side of the door gets louder.

“Just lemme see her.”

Sting’s heart stops and he can’t breathe because the last time he heard that voice everything was broken, and his head hurt and he couldn’t stop crying and—

“You lost that right a long time ago,” Uncle Wes growls. “You know you’re not allowed to be here. Get out.”

Everything’s going blurry and Sting sits down hard on the top step, shaking as the world falls away around him. He tries to ground himself – that’s what his therapist keeps saying, but every single thing she’s ever told him slips away as he struggles to keep breathing.

“I’m her fath—”

“You are _nothing,”_ Uncle Wes says. There’s a loud bang and the sound of splintered wood, and Sting bites back a terrified scream, wrapping his arms around his legs and pressing his forehead to his knees.

_Go away,_ he thinks desperately, wishing he were brave enough to open his eyes. _Please don’t hurt me. I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. Please._

“Just let me—”

“I told you to get out.” Uncle Wes’ voice is the quiet kind of angry that leaves Sting with a low, thrumming panic in his chest. His arms ache where he’s digging his fingernails into the skin, and the pain is the only real thing right now. “I will _never_ let you hurt him again. Ever.”

“Him? I didn’t—”

“Save your bullshit for your parole officer,” Uncle Wes growls. “You might have some people fooled, but I was the one who picked him up from the hospital. I know what you did, and don’t you dare think for one goddamned second that I’m _ ever_ going to let you anywhere near my nephew.”

When the other voice start shouting, the tiny part of Sting that’s been holding onto reality snaps, and he’s eleven again, terrified and hiding.

_Please,_ he thinks desperately as tears slip down his cheeks. He wants Kelly to find him and hug him and tell him it’s going to be okay.

Sting’s not sure how much time passes – the shouting stops and the door slams, and after that he doesn’t listen. Eventually, he hears someone coming up the stairs and he presses himself against the wall, heart slamming against his chest so hard that he can’t breathe. Something touches his arm and he flinches, bringing his hand up to cover his face.

“It’s just me,” a gentle voice says, and Sting hears the stair creak as Uncle Wes settles down next to him. “I’m so sorry, he’s gone now. Are you okay? ”

Sting shakes his head, trying to stop shaking – it’s like every piece of him is trying to escape in different directions. He holds his breath and grinds his teeth and bites the inside of his lip, but none of it works. Eventually he peeks up at Uncle Wes, who gives Sting a sad smile and opens his arms.

Sting hesitates for only a second before accepting the hug. “You’re safe now,” Uncle Wes murmurs as Sting cries against his shoulder, curling up against his chest. “I’m so sorry. He’s not allowed to be here.”

“Wh-why…” Sting can’t make words yet, just focuses on the gentle weight of Uncle Wes’ hand on his arm. “He’s… I…”

“I’m sorry,” Uncle Wes says again, kissing the top of Sting’s head. “He’s not in jail anymore, but he has someone called a probation officer that makes sure he follows the rules. One of those rules is that he’s not allowed to come near you, and he’s going to get in trouble for being here.”

Sting rubs his face with the back of his hand as the pounding in his chest starts to come back to normal. He lets out a shaky breath, then asks, “why was he here?”

It’s not the question he expected to ask, but the fear in his chest is slowly shifting into a barbed, burning anger.

“I’m not sure,” Uncle Wes admits, pulling back and brushing Sting’s hair out of his eyes. “But that doesn’t matter, he can’t come here, and he can’t see you.”

Sting rubs his face and pulls away from Uncle Wes. His skin feels raw, stretched over the wrong body, everything sharp and aching.

“I wanna be alone,” he says quietly. Uncle Wes nods, standing up and reaching out to help Sting up. Sting stares at the outstretched hand, then shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

“I’ll come check on you in a little bit,” Uncle Wes says, taking a step back down the stairs. “Maybe we can get pizza tonight?”

Sting doesn’t say anything, just rubs his arms and heads back down the hallway to his room. His mind is a jumbled mess, fear warring with a sudden, dangerous fury that sparks and burns through him.

He spends the rest of the weekend hiding in his bedroom. Uncle Wes tries to coax him out a few times with offers of pizza and movies, but Sting just shakes his head, curling up on the bed and staring at the wallpaper.

His dad isn’t in jail anymore.

Uncle Wes had talked to him about it a few weeks ago. He’d tried to explain things like plea bargains and sentencing, but it had all gone over Sting’s head. In the end, all that had mattered was that Sting’s dad knew the right kind of people, and even the scar on Sting’s forehead wasn’t enough to keep him away.

_Let me talk to my daughter._

Sting can’t remember the last thing his dad said to him. Everything about that day is hazy – whenever his therapist asks about it, all Sting can feel is pain and nausea and a low, thrumming sense of terror. He knows that his dad yelled and swore when the police came, but before, when he’d hurt Sting, he’d been quiet.

The silence had been cold and terrifying, and when Sting closes his eyes and forces himself to try and remember, he nearly throws up. It’s not like a memory in movies – there’s no timeline to it, no clear image of what happened. Instead it’s pieces. Bits of things he’s pushed away for so long.

_The front door clicking shut. Dad’s cold, dark eyes. Sunlight glinting off the broken glass. Trying so hard to be quiet. Dad’s hand in his hair. His head hitting the coffee table. Bright sparks of pain. The TV screen shattering. Fingers tight around his wrist. Heart rabbit-thumping as he hid in the closet, trying to be small, trying to be quiet, trying to be good._

Sting growls in frustration and sits up, throwing his pillow across the room. It knocks his pile of books to the floor, and Sting stares at them, picturing tearing out all the pages and ripping the covers to pieces.

He wants to break something like his dad broke him.

Instead he grabs his other pillow, pressing it against his face while he screams. The anger burns through him, hot and jagged, and no matter how many tears soak the fabric, it won’t go away.

_Why?_ The word circles through his head, repeating over and over until it overwhelms him and he punches the mattress. _Why did you hurt me, why didn’t you love me, why wasn’t I enough, why, why, why?_

Sting tosses the pillow aside and flops back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling as something determined settles into his chest. His dad is terrifying, but he’s the only one with answers, and Sting finally has a chance to find out.

* * *

When Uncle Wes goes to sleep, Sting slips out of his room and creeps down to the kitchen. Uncle Wes’ phone is sitting on the counter charging, and Sting stares at it for a long time before picking it up and opening Uncle Wes’ contact list. He scrolls through it, searching for his dad’s name. He doesn’t expect to find it – Uncle Wes hasn’t talked to Sting’s dad since he went to jail, and even before that. But his number is saved there, and Sting clicks on it before he can change his mind.

He doesn’t have time to feel afraid because his dad picks up after the first ring and growls, “thought you told me to fuck off.”

It feels like being slapped. Everything in Sting tenses and he nearly hangs up.

“What do you want, Wes?” his dad asks.

Sting sucks in a shaky breath, then whispers, “dad?”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. Sting’s convinced that his dad can hear his heart pounding – it’s slamming against his chest so hard he can barely breathe. He sinks down to the ground, pulling his knees to his chest and pinching the back of his arm to keep himself from crying.

“Abbey?” his dad says eventually.

“Yeah,” Sting says quietly, even though he hasn’t heard that name in over a year. He looks over at the stairs, listening carefully for any movement from Uncle Wes, but the only sound in the house is the dishwasher running.

“Does Wes know you’re calling me?”

Sting shakes his head. “No,” he says. “He said you weren’t allowed to see me.”

His dad sighs, and Sting can picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose and staring at the ground with his jaw tense and lines on his forehead. “I’m not,” his dad says eventually. “But I want to.”

The nausea comes back immediately, filling Sting’s stomach with bile that he can taste at the back of his throat. He forces himself to say, “me too.”

“Can you come to the park?” his dad asks, and it takes Sting a second to realize that he’s talking about the park next to their old home. Crocus is over two hours away by bus, but Sting knows where Uncle Wes’ wallet is, and he can walk to the stop from their house.

“Yeah,” he says. He presses his forehead against his knees. Part of him thinks he should just ask his dad now, on the phone, but Sting needs to see his face when he answers the question. Sting just needs to know. If he hurries, he can make it there and back to the house before Uncle Wes wakes up.

“Okay,” his dad says. His voice is soft, suddenly, and Sting clutches the phone tighter to keep his hand from trembling.

“I’ll be there in a couple hours,” he says, staring out the window at the cloudy, moonless sky. “See you soon.”

As soon as he hangs up the phone, Sting runs to the bathroom and throws up. He shivers, spitting the taste out of his mouth and wiping away the sweat on his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. He can’t stop shaking, can’t stop thinking about being eleven and throwing up in the closet because his head hurt so badly he could barely see.

Eventually he picks himself up off the floor and runs the tap, splashing his face and rinsing out his mouth. Then he stares at himself in the mirror for a long time. Eventually he combs his hair to cover his scar, then takes a deep breath and leaves for the bus stop.

* * *

Sting makes it to the park without throwing up again. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets to keep them from shaking, and every time he closes his eyes and opens them again, the lights around him blur. It’s like he’s floating behind everything; a ghost of someone who isn’t afraid.

He drags the terrified, furious pieces of himself over the sidewalk cracks, across the dirty asphalt and the plants growing through the concrete. When he sees the bench where he used to meet Rogue in the mornings on the way to school, something cracks in Sting’s chest and he starts to cry, desperately wiping at his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater.

He can’t cry. Not now. Right now, he needs to be brave, because he needs to know why.

A hand drops onto Sting’s shoulder and he pulls away quickly, spinning around and stumbling backward as his heart pounds against his ribs. It takes him a second to realize that the hand is attached to a person, and that the person is his father.

“Abbey?”

His dad looks the same. Nothing’s changed in the last three years except the graying stubble on his chin. Sting stares at him, a rush of anger flooding through him as all the moments he’s been trying to avoid catch up to him.

“I…” Sting tries to say something, but he can’t quite breathe around the mix of fury and fear. When his dad takes a step toward him, Sting scrambles backward, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, and catches himself on the arm of the park bench. His dad’s movements are uncoordinated, and it takes Sting a second to realize that he smells like beer.

Everything Sting had planned to say is instantly gone, determined resentment replaced by terror, and instead he whispers, “I’m sorry,” because that’s all he’s ever said to his father. _I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet, I promise._

“His nephew,” Sting’s dad says softly, and his eyes widen as he finally puts the pieces together. “You’re a…”

“Please,” Sting begs, digging his fingernails into his palms as he takes short, shallow breaths. All he wants to know is _ why._ “I won’t… I didn’t do anything wr-wrong, I was trying to be quiet and I don’t understand why you…”

“You think you’re a boy,” his dad says, ignoring the way Sting’s stumbling over his words. He reaches out for Sting’s arm and Sting pushes himself further back toward the bench, but his father’s fingers close around his wrist. Suddenly Sting is six and crying, eight and hiding, nine and begging, eleven and not knowing what he did wrong.

“I…”

“What the hell has he been doing with you?”

“Nothing,” Sting says, trying to keep his voice steady as he tugs at his dad’s grip. “Let go of me.”

His father’s face is cold, and he tightens his grip on Sting’s wrist. Shadows play across his cheeks from the dim light of the streetlamps, making him look sharp and dangerous. Now that he’s closer, it’s clear that he’s been drinking – his eyes are red and the look he’s giving Sting makes the scar on his forehead hurt.

“Why?” Sting asks, every muscle in his body tense as he tries not to pull away. If he fights back, it’ll just be worse.

“Why what?” his dad mutters, and Sting can’t stop crying.

“You…” Sting swallows, then rubs at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks. “I jus —”

“Stop it,” his dad snaps, tightening his grip on Sting’s wrist until it hurts. It always hurts. “You’re so goddamn emotional. Always crying about stupid shit.”

_grow up_

_stop crying_

_don’t be such a baby_

“I’m n-not—” Sting starts, but his dad interrupts, yanking him forward and hissing, “Shut up.”

Sting squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head, but the blow he’s expecting never comes. Instead, the grip on his wrist loosens and he stumbles, hitting the back of his legs against the park bench. When he looks up, a police officer is standing there, one hand on his dad’s shoulder.

“Is everything okay here?” she asks, and for a second Sting thinks it’s Kelly. A desperate part of him wants to hide behind her, but then he realizes that it’s not her, and he’s not supposed to be here, and his dad looks like he’s going to run.

Sting’s breath catches as he stares at his dad, and the realization settles in his chest, cold and sharp – there is no reason. There is no _why._ His dad didn’t hurt him because he was too loud, or because he didn’t do the dishes, or because he didn’t come home on time.

There is no _why_, and it’s never going to change.

“We’re fine,” his dad growls at the same time that Sting whispers, “Help.”


	9. impaired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse, and Sting tries to find ways to cope with his anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for underage drinking and sexually suggestive content with teens

im·paired | \ im-ˈperd  
adjective  
**: **being in an imperfect or weakened state or condition

**.**

**vii**   
**spring**   
**age thirteen**

**.**

After that, the nightmares start.

Sting wakes up crying in the middle of the night with blood under his fingernails from scratching at his arms. He can’t remember what the dream was about, but afterward, he can’t fall back asleep. His stomach hurts, and there’s a part of him that wants to wake up Uncle Wes and ask for a hug. But then he hears his dad’s voice, so he hides in the closet instead.

_Grow up_

_Stop crying_

_Don’t be such a baby_

Sting squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears, shaking his head and pressing himself as far back in the corner as he can. “Stop it,” he whispers. Everything is blurry and his head hurts, and all he can think about is shouting and broken glass.

The next day at school he can’t eat, and halfway through third period he gets a headache so bad that he has to run to the washroom and throw up. He manages through the rest of the day, and when he gets home, Uncle Wes tries to ask what’s wrong.

Sting ignore the question and hides in his bedroom, refusing supper and eventually falling asleep in his clothes. He wakes up in the middle of the night, crying and sweating and eventually throwing up again.

“You don’t look good,” Uncle Wes says the next morning when Sting drags himself downstairs for breakfast. “Do you want to stay home from school today?”

Sting can’t even look at him. Even when the police had showed up with Sting in tow at four in the morning, Uncle Wes hadn’t been mad. He hadn’t yelled at Sting for using his phone, or stealing money for the bus, or sneaking away to see his dad. Instead he’d thanked the officer, then pulled Sting into a hug and told him it was going to be okay.

Sting shakes his head, pushing away the cereal Uncle Wes made for him and leaving the house without a word.

It’s not going to be okay.

* * *

Things get worse.

The nightmares don’t stop. Sting’s stomach hurts every day, and food becomes a fight. He can’t pay attention in school, and nothing sticks because he’s never really there. When he starts failing tests, Uncle Wes tries to step in. He meets with Sting and his teachers and it’s just like when Sting had come out and they’d all talked about pronouns and bathrooms like he wasn’t even there. This time, the teachers look at him with pity instead of curiosity, and eventually Sting shoves his chair over and storms out of the room.

He doesn’t go back to school.

Uncle Wes gets him into this online program for ‘alternative learning,’ which Sting knows is a fancy way for saying ‘kids that are fucked up.’ At first, he tries because Uncle Wes is so good to him, and Sting doesn’t want to make him upset. But eventually, it’s too much. He can’t focus on anything, and he doesn’t want to.

Sting knows Uncle Wes is disappointed, but he never shouts, and sometimes Sting wishes he would. Nothing makes Uncle Wes mad, so Sting gets angry instead. He yells and slams doors and tears his notebooks to pieces, but it doesn’t help.

Sting never feels better, and he starts to think he never will.

* * *

The first time Sting gets drunk, he’s sixteen.

He’s sitting on the street in an unfamiliar town, staring up at the streetlights and trying not to cry. It’s been hours since he ran away from the guy he’d hitchhiked here with – hours since the words _you owe me for the ride _were accompanied by a hand around his wrist and a sharp stab of panic. Sting had never run so fast in his life, and now he’s desperately, terrifyingly lost.

Uncle Wes has probably realized he’s gone by now, but it’s the fourth time Sting’s taken off in the past two years, so he probably hasn’t even bothered to call the police this time. Part of Sting wants him to, wants to be found. The other part knows that he’s not worth saving.

_You’re never gonna be anything. _

Sting shudders. _Fuck you, dad, _he thinks, wrapping his arms around his knees and pulling them close to his chest. It’s November and he’s freezing – he’s wearing two sweaters but the chill on the cement is soaking through his jeans and he can barely feel his fingers.

“If you stay there, you’re gonna get picked up.”

Sting looks up to see a guy a few years older than him leaning against the bus stop down the street. He’s got hard, dark eyes, and Sting thinks he should probably run away, but he’s just so fucking tired.

“Fuck off,” he growls, trying to sound tough. He’s sure he just sounds pathetic.

The guy shrugs, tipping his head toward the end of the street. “Cops tend to come by here. It’s too close to the fancy neighborhoods.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a step toward Sting. “You’re not from around here.”

Sting doesn’t answer. He pulls his knees closer to him, digging his fingers into his palm to keep himself from trembling. Last time he ran, it had been July, and he’d been able to sleep in the park for a couple nights. This time it’s freezing, and he has nowhere to go.

The sharp blip of a siren makes Sting jump. _Fuck. _If he gets picked up again, he’ll just end up being Uncle Wes’ problem again, and that’s the last thing he needs. Red-and-blue lights reflect off the wall further down the street, and Sting hears a door slam as an officer gets out of the car.

“You need a place to crash,” the guy says, and it’s more of a statement than a question. He reaches out a hand and Sting shies away from it.

“Why the fuck do you care?” Sting asks.

“I was there,” the guy says, shrugging. “We’ve all got sob stories. Look, it’s not the fuckin’ Hilton, but it’s warm and sometimes people have shit to eat. You look hungry.” Sting stares at the outstretched fingers, then slowly reaches out and takes them. “I’m Ryan,” the guy says once Sting is standing.

“Sting.”

“Interesting name.”

Sting doesn’t say anything, but when Ryan starts walking down the street, Sting grabs his backpack from the ground and follows him. It’s starting to snow, heavy flakes drifting through the dirty light of the streetlamps, and Sting shoves his hands deep into his pockets, shivering.

“Where you from?” Ryan asks as they walk.

“Not here,” Sting replies.

Ryan looks at him sideways, eyes searching Sting’s face before he says, “how old are you?”

“What difference does it make?” Sting snaps, staring down at the sidewalk. He’s tempted to just tell this guy to fuck off, to try and find a quiet corner to sleep in until he can figure out what to do, but Ryan doesn’t pry, so Sting keeps following him.

* * *

Ryan’s place turns out to be a shitty apartment in a building with a busted door and a broken elevator. Everything smells like cigarette smoke and the wallpaper is peeling, and when Ryan kicks the door to his apartment open, a cloud of smoke wafts out around him.

“C’mon,” Ryan says, grabbing Sting’s arm and guiding him inside. Sting immediately tries to pull away, but Ryan’s grip is tight, and he doesn’t even seem to notice Sting’s panic.

“Ryaannn!” Some guy from the living room calls out and holds up a bottle of beer from his spot on the couch. “Who’s the new kid?”

“Sting,” Ryan says, nudging Sting forward through the kitchen. “Grab him a beer, yeah?”

The next few minutes are a blur of unfamiliar people and names Sting won’t remember, and a low, thrumming panic in the back of his mind that whispers, _get out, get out, you aren’t safe. _When someone eventually pushes a beer into his hand, he stares at the bottle for a long time. All he can think about is his dad, sitting in the recliner in the living room, downing drink after drink until he passed out and it was finally safe for Sting to leave his room.

_I’m not like him, _Sting thinks, swallowing back tears. But then he remembers last night, when he’d been so angry that he’d thrown his plate on the floor and shouted at Uncle Wes across the broken pieces. The whole time, Uncle Wes had been calm and patient, and it had stoked the aching, terrified fury that was always boiling in Sting’s chest.

_I’m just like him, _Sting thinks, and takes a drink.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Sting to start feeling it.

At first, it’s like bubbles. Sting’s cheeks flush and his fingers tingle, and the hurt that he’s been carrying around for so long starts to fade into a sort of numb haze. Then Ryan gives him a couple shots of something that tastes horrible, and then a cup of something pink, and after a while, Sting feels like he’s floating. Every time he blinks it’s like falling asleep – soft and hazy and a little bit unreal.

Sting’s not sure what time it is, but it doesn’t seem to matter. People come and go, laughing and drinking and making out with each other on the couches or against the walls. Every time Sting closes his eyes and opens them again, it’s like a shifting dream where everything’s out of sync and nobody is real.

“You okay?” A soft voice drags Sting out of his haze and he looks up. A girl that he doesn’t recognize stares down at him, and he realizes that his head is in her lap and she’s running her fingers through his hair. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, running his hand over the fabric of the couch. The sensation is wildly unfamiliar, sparks prickling on his fingertips as he explores a ragged cigarette burn on the cushion. Every time the girl touches his face, it’s electric, and he stares at her. “Your eyes are green,” he says, reaching up and running his fingers across her cheek.

“You’re wasted,” the girl giggles. “Why’re you here? You’re too pretty for this place.”

Sting stares at her for a minute, then shakes his head. His hands are tingling now, and he can’t feel anything except a deep sense of relief. The room around him is warped and fading, and he wonders why he’s never done this before.

“How’re you feeling?”

Sting looks up at someone vaguely familiar – Ryan, he’s pretty sure – whose face is swimming in front of the blurry living room lights. It’s like a halo around him, making him bright and warm and something Sting wants to touch.

He does, reaching out and running his fingers over Ryan’s jeans. The fabric is textured under Sting’s fingertips – it’s like he can feel every fiber of the denim against his skin.

“You’re wasted,” Ryan laughs, pulling the girl up and taking her place on the couch next to Sting. A tiny flash of panic runs through Sting when Ryan touches his hair, but the feeling starts to fade when Ryan’s fingers start combing through it. “Feels good, hey?”

Sting hums. He’s so tired, suddenly – keeping his eyes open feels next to impossible. Maybe if he sleeps like this, he won’t have nightmares.

“Y’know what else feels good?” Ryan asks, his voice dropping as he keeps playing with Sting’s hair. His other hand slides up over Sting’s stomach and starts to move in gentle circles there. Sting tenses. 

“I don’t—”

“It’s okay,” Ryan says, sliding his hand a little lower until his fingers are brushing Sting’s belt. A jolt of panic makes its way through the haze in Sting’s mind and he pushes Ryan’s hand away clumsily.

“No,” he mumbles, forcing himself to sit up. As soon as he’s vertical, everything starts to spin, and he groans, putting his head in his hands.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Ryan says gently, putting his hand between Sting’s shoulder blades. “This your first time?”

Sting’s not sure if Ryan’s talking about drinking, or whatever he was planning on doing with his hands and Sting’s belt, but either way the answer is ‘yes.’ “I should…” Sting frowns, looking around the room for his backpack. Everything blurs together into a mess of light and color, and he sighs, leaning back against the couch.

“I told you that you could crash here,” Ryan says. His thigh is touching Sting’s, but his hands aren’t, so Sting lets it slide. “’s my fault you’re wasted.”

Sting wants to argue, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. “’kay,” he says quietly, leaning back until he’s lying on the couch again and staring at the water stains on the ceiling. He shouldn’t be here. His phone is in his back pocket, and Sting knows that if he called, Uncle Wes would come get him.

Ryan squeezes Sting’s knee and stands up, giving Sting an unreadable look and then heading away into the kitchen. The sounds of the party around him fade away, and Sting’s hand drifts down to his phone.

But then he thinks about the broken glass and the awful words he’d shouted, and he shakes his head, curling up so he’s facing the back of the couch and letting himself slip back into a numb haze.

Sting can survive on his own, and Uncle Wes is better off without him.


	10. unconditional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting stays with Ryan, but it isn't always safe. Finding a new friend helps him make an important decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for drinking/drug use and insinuations of non-con

unconditional | \ ˌən-kən-ˈdish-nəl   
adjective  
: not conditional or limited

**.**

**viii  
winter  
age seventeen**

**.**

Sting spends his seventeenth birthday in an unfamiliar alley, trying his best not to pass out. He can’t remember how he got here, but he’s got a bloody lip and his knuckles are scraped, so he’s pretty sure it has something to do with Ryan.

The world tilts under Sting and he leans to the side to throw up, but nothing comes out. All he can taste is blood from his split lip, and bile and liquor in the back of his throat. It’s been a while since he had something to eat.

“Fuck,” he whispers, tipping his head back against the concrete wall behind him. He’s not drunk enough to be numb anymore, and the cold is creeping up through his jeans, under his hoodie, up into his chest where it turns into something like fear. If he can’t go back to Ryan’s, he has nowhere to go.

_Don’t be such a fucking baby, _he thinks, wiping at his face and shaking his head. _This is your fault._ He pulls his knees up to his chest and takes a deep breath, staring at the wall opposite him. Someone’s written _Emily sucks cock _in sharpie, and the ground underneath the graffiti is covered with broken glass.

A shiver runs through Sting and he grinds his teeth, pressing his forehead to his knees. He’s more than just drunk, and he vaguely remembers taking pills of some kind from one of Ryan’s friends. Then there’d been touching, and Ryan getting jealous, and Sting’s not sure who threw the first punch but it doesn’t really matter because now he’s cold and alone.

Sting’s about to try to stand when there’s a rustling sound in the trash nearby, followed by a pathetic meow. An empty can tumbles from the bin, clanging on the concrete, and it’s followed by a thin, orange tabby cat with its foot caught in something. It meows again, stumbling as it tries to pull away.

“Hey kitty,” Sting mumbles, pushing himself up onto his knees and reaching out to the cat. Its ears immediately go flat against its head. “’s okay,” he said softly, settling back down closer to the cat as the ground starts shifting again. “’m not gonna hurt you.”

The cat stops struggling and stares at Sting for a second. He realizes that its paw is caught in a six-pack wrapper and he sighs, reaching out for it again.

“C’mere,” he says softly, rubbing his fingers together. Everything’s still swimming, but he tries his best to focus on the cat. It stares at him suspiciously for a minute, then slowly approaches, sniffing his outstretched fingers before bumping its head against his hand. “Good kitty,” Sting says, running his fingers over its head as it meows at him again.

“Okay, okay, lemme see,” Sting says softly, blinking a few times to clear his vision before tugging the plastic wrap off the cat’s leg. It squeaks indignantly, then realizes its paw is free and immediately starts to purr.

Sting shoves the wrapper into his hoodie pocket, then gestures at the cat. “Get outta here,” he says, pointing toward the end of the alley. “I don’t have anything for you.” He rubs his face. “Don’t have anything.”

The cat meows at Sting again and he frowns at it as it moves closer and nudges his hand again. When he scratches it behind the ears, it starts to purr louder and rubs itself against his legs.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he rubs at his face, digging it out and staring at the screen. It’s from Ryan.

_Come back, baby. I’m sorry. _

Sting sighs, tipping his head back against the wall and staring up at the hazy sky. He doubts that Ryan’s really sorry, but he doesn’t really have much of a choice. If he has to choose between sleeping on the street and sleeping in Ryan’s bed, he’ll choose Ryan’s bed ninety percent of the time.

Only ninety, though.

Sting looks down at the cat, who is now curled up in his lap, purring so loud that it’s vibrating under his fingertips.

“C’mon, little guy,” he says, shoving his phone back in his pocket and tucking the cat under his arm as he slowly pushes himself to his feet. “Let’s get somewhere warm.”

* * *

As soon as Sting walks into the door of Ryan’s apartment, he regrets it. The whole room is hazy with the smell of pot, and Ryan’s standing in the kitchen, eyes red and gaze mostly vacant. He’s got a beer bottle in one hand and he stares at Sting like he’s not quite sure who he is.

“’s that?” he asks, gesturing to the cat that Sting has tucked under his jacket.

“I found him,” Sting says, and the way Ryan looks at him makes his stomach hurt, suddenly. “I just—he was cold.”

“What the fuck are we gonna do with it?” Ryan says, pushing himself off the counter and stepping toward Sting. “You didn’t even have the money for Jeremy for the shit he gave you, how th’fuck are you gonna take care of a cat?”

Sting takes a step backward, wrapping his jacket tighter around the cat as it meows at him pathetically. “I don’t… I was gonna take him to the shelter tomorrow,” he says. “Its just for the night. Don’t we have some… I dunno, tuna or something? He’s just hungry.”

Ryan rolls his eyes, rubbing his face and gesturing at the fridge. “Sure, I got food.”

The way he says it makes Sting uneasy. Sting’s been here on-and-off again for the last year – as long as he does what Ryan wants, he gets to stay. The ‘no’ from the first night they’d met had worn down into a reluctant ‘yes’ after several weeks of floating in a numb haze, and it’s been keeping Ryan happy. When Ryan is happy, Sting gets a place to stay and eat and drink.

Right now, Ryan doesn’t look happy.

“I’ll pay you back,” Sting says quietly. “I just gotta—I can find a new job.”

“How ‘bout you pay me back right now?” Ryan says, reaching out and grabbing Sting’s wrist. He pulls Sting close, breathing the words in Sting’s ear. “I had to pay Jeremy earlier, so he’d leave. You already owe me.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Sting says again, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I don’t want your money,” Ryan says. His hand travels down Sting’s arm to his hip, gripping it tightly. “C’mon, baby. Come to bed with me.”

Sting’s suddenly sure he’s going to be sick and he pulls away, backing up into the door. He’s not drunk enough for this, and everything is hitting him at the same time. “No,” he whispers, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t want to.”

“I didn’t ask what you wanted,” Ryan growls, reaching out to grab Sting’s arm again. The cat hisses at him, squirming desperately in Sting’s grip, and Sting pushes Ryan away.

“I said ‘no,’” he says, shaking his head and reaching back for the door handle. “I’m… I gotta go.”

“You got nowhere else to go,” Ryan says. His voice is both hard and sweet at the same time, and Sting nearly throws up.

“No,” he says again, fumbling at the handle until he can push the door open.

Ryan sneers and waves dismissively at Sting. As the door closes between them, Sting hears his final words – “You’ll be back.”

* * *

Once Sting is out of the apartment building, he runs. He knows Ryan won’t chase him, but a cold terror is pulling him apart, and he can’t get away fast enough. He stops once to throw up behind a bus stop, then keeps going, gasping and trying to ignore the tears on his cheeks.

When he finally stops, he realizes he’s at the bus station.

“Fuck,” he whispers, wrapping his jacket tighter around him and the cat. “I…”

He stumbles over to a bench and sits down, staring at the sign declaring departures and arrivals.

_Saint Portage – Departs in 7 minutes_

“I can’t,” Sting says, stroking the cat’s head when it starts to meow at him. He’s crying now, and shivering, and sort of feels like he’s going to die. “I don’t… I can’t.”

He can, though. Uncle Wes has texted him every week for the last year, sending the same message over and over.

_I love you. I miss you. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, please come home. _

This morning he’d texted again, and Sting pulls his phone out now to stare at the message through blurry tears.

_Happy birthday, Sting. I hope you’re safe. I know that you’re hurting and life hasn’t been kind to you, but I want you to know that I’ll always love you, no matter what. I miss you every day, and I will always, always be here if you need me. _

_Love, Uncle Wes. _

Sting bites back a sob, rubbing at his face with his dirty sleeve and trying to swallow back the tears. He looks up at the sign again, then back at the text, then at the cat that’s sitting patiently inside his jacket, staring up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Before he can change his mind, he shoves his phone back in his pocket, then darts across the street and sneaks onto the bus to take him home.

* * *

Walking up the steps to Uncle Wes’ house is the hardest thing Sting’s ever done. He turns around so many times that it takes him nearly an hour to get from the end of the block to the front door, and when he’s finally there, he can’t even bring himself to ring the doorbell.

The cat, which he’s decided to name Lector, meows pitifully at him from inside his coat. Sting shivers, clutching his phone so tightly that he’s sure it’s going to crack. He’d read and re-read every message from Uncle Wes for the entire bus ride, and he’s still not convinced that the door isn’t going to be slammed in his face the second Uncle Wes sees him.

Lector meows again and Sting takes a shaky breath, then reaches out and presses the doorbell.

He doesn’t even have time to change his mind because as soon as he takes his hand away from the door, it swings open, and there’s Uncle Wes, staring at Sting with tears in his eyes.

“You’re safe.”

Uncle Wes breathes the words as he reaches out and pulls Sting into a tight hug. Everything in Sting lets go and he starts to cry, pressing his face against Uncle Wes’ chest and letting out a loud, wracking sob.

“It’s okay,” Uncle Wes says softly, pulling Sting closer and kissing the top of his head. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I love you.” 

Lector meows pitifully in Sting’s arms as he’s squished between the two of them, and Uncle Wes pulls back, looking down curiously at the cat.

Sting has so many things he wants to say. The words are stuck – words like _I’m sorry, _or _I fucked up, _or _I’m scared. _

Instead he looks at the miserable cat in his arms and whispers, “Can we keep him?”


	11. relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting tries to get better, but it's easier to feel nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for self-harm, suicidal thoughts, drinking, brief noncon/dubcon, and drug use**
> 
> This is the last super angsty chapter and then we're caught up to the main timeline of Sting staying at Natsu's place. It gets happier from here and Rogue makes his appearance soon, promise!

relapse | \ ri-ˈlaps.  
noun  
**: **the act or an instance of backsliding, worsening, or subsiding

.

**ix  
winter  
** **age seventeen**

**.**

Sting tries, this time, he really does. The first night, Uncle Wes sits up with him on the couch, holding him close and rubbing his back while he cries. Lector doesn’t move from his lap either, and the three of them stay up until the sun is peeking in the kitchen window and Sting’s cried himself to sleep.

The next few days are a blur. Sting throws up a lot, and sweats and shakes, and feels like he’s going to die. Part of him wishes he would, because now that he’s not drunk, he has to feel all the things he’s been trying too hard to avoid.

He hates it.

“It’ll get better,” Uncle Wes says when he brings Sting crackers and tea and sits with him on the bed. “Just give it time.”

Sting makes it three weeks before he can’t handle it anymore. He’s sitting in his bedroom, staring at his phone and the twenty-seven missed texts from Ryan.

_I’m sorry, babe, please come back_

_I miss you so much_

_I need you_

_You need me_

Sting groans, clutching the phone so tightly he’s worried it will break. Part of him wants to throw it against the wall and watch it shatter into pieces, but the other part clings to it like a lifeline. No matter how hard he tries, how much he meditates or reads or sits in the sunshine with Uncle Wes, nothing changes. His mind is a mess and his chest feels empty, and he thinks maybe the part of him that knows how to be happy died a long time ago.

Sting drops the phone on the blanket, inhaling shakily and trying to stop the frantic racing in his mind. Everything is so goddamn loud, all the fucking time. _You’re worthless, you’re stupid, people hurt you and you deserve it, you’re just like your dad and you’ll never be anything better. _

He needs to make it stop.

Sting gets out of bed slowly, listening at the door of his room to make sure Uncle Wes is asleep before moving out into the hallway. The house is quiet, lit only by the cold moonlight pouring in from the front window. Sting sneaks down the stairs, avoiding the steps that squeak, and when he finally makes it out into the garage, he breathes a sigh of relief.

Uncle Wes’ tools are lined up on the bench, laid out carefully, just like everything else in his life. Neat. Orderly. Not a chaotic mess.

It doesn’t take long for Sting to find the box cutter, and he takes it with shaking hands, sinking down to the floor and flicking it open. The blade glints in the dim light of the garage and he stares at it for several seconds before pressing it to the skin of his forearm.

It’s like exhaling. The sharp bite of the blade pulls all the panic down to one place, a manageable, physical pain that Sting can handle. The racing thoughts fade away, cleared by another sharp burst of pain, and another, and another.

When Sting finally comes back to himself, his forearm is covered with blood, but he can’t feel anything. He exhales, closing the blade and shoving it in his back pocket before pushing himself shakily to his feet and grabbing a towel from the workbench to press against his arm. Then he staggers back to the door, opening it as quietly as possible and heading to the bathroom to find the first aid kit.

When he finally makes it back upstairs, Lector is in his bed, curled up on his pillow and purring contentedly. Sting sits down carefully beside him and Lector mrowls, opening one eye and tipping his head up against Sting’s fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Sting says softly. “I needed it.”

Maybe he can do this instead of drinking, and he won’t hurt anybody but himself.

* * *

Two weeks later, Sting takes a drink again. He’s walking to the bus stop after therapy and feeling like shit because all the therapist wants to talk about is Ryan.

_He took advantage of you. He coerced you. It’s not a healthy relationship. He’s dangerous. _

“I know that,” Sting hisses, gritting his teeth and kicking at an empty bottle on the side of the road. It hits the edge of a bicycle rack and part of it shatters, leaving behind sharp edges that Sting’s tempted to use. He sighs, rubbing his face. “I know that, but I said yes.”

Thinking about sex with Ryan makes him feel like throwing up, and he swallows down the sensation, walking quickly away from the broken glass. It’s only when he gets to the end of the street that he realizes he’s standing outside a liquor store.

He stops, staring in the window and reaching into his pocket to feel for his wallet. His fake ID is still in there – can’t even remember who made it, Ryan probably, but it’s a good one. Besides, Sting looks older than he is, and in a year, he won’t even need it.

Uncle Wes’ voice echoes through Sting’s mind. _You’re doing so well, I’m proud of you. _But he doesn’t know about the marks on Sting’s forearms or the blades he’s got hidden in his drawers. Sting isn’t better. He’s just hurting himself differently.

He gives in.

* * *

The look of hurt and concern on Uncle Wes’ face when Sting comes home drunk feels worse than the cuts on his arms. Sting stumbles up the front steps and when he pushes open the door, he knows he can’t hide it. Lector trots over to him and rubs against his legs, meowing happily, and Sting’s cheeks burn.

“’m sorry,” he says softly.

“It’s okay,” Uncle Wes says gently, standing from the kitchen table and moving closer. Sting shakes his head and takes a step back.

“’s not,” he slurs, rubbing his face. He’s having trouble standing. “D’no why you fuckin’… care, why… why…”

“Because I love you,” Uncle Wes replies as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He takes Sting’s arm and guides him inside, then helps him up the stairs into his room. “I’m not angry,” he says, and Sting wishes he would be.

“Jus’ be… be mad,” he begs, dropping his head into his hands. He doesn’t _understand. _“I can’t… jus’ fuckin’ hit me.”

“Sting,” Uncle Wes says, voice both soft and reproachful. “I would never hurt you.”

“You should.”

“No. Never.”

_Then I’ll just have to hurt myself, _Sting thinks, blinking as the room starts to go out of focus. “Go ‘way,” he mumbles.

Uncle Wes sighs. “Why don’t you sleep this off,” he suggests. “We can talk in the morning.”

Sting flops back on the bed and rolls away from Uncle Wes, digging his fingernails into his palm as he stares at the wall. Eventually Uncle Wes stands and says, “I love you,” one more time before heading out of the room and closing the door behind him.

“Why?” Sting whispers, biting back the urge to throw up. He’s too exhausted to even cry, so he lays there, staring at the ceiling and wishing he were dead.

* * *

The next morning Sting’s head is pounding, and he stumbles to the stop of the stairs, stopping when he hears Uncle Wes talking to someone.

“He’s getting worse,” Uncle Wes says, and when there’s no answer, Sting realizes he’s on the phone. “I’m not sure what else to do.”

Sting bites down on his tongue as guilt swells in his chest. He’s too much. He’ll always be too much.

“I don’t know if I can convince him to go to rehab,” Uncle Wes says quietly, and Sting can hear the frustration in his voice. “He needs more help, but he won’t accept it. He’s as stubborn as—”

Sting runs back to his room before Uncle Wes can finish the sentence because Sting knows exactly what he was going to say. _He’s as stubborn as his father. _

He’s exactly like the only person he never wanted to become.

“Fuck,” Sting whispers. He can’t do this. Not to Uncle Wes, who’s too kind for someone like Sting. He doesn’t deserve to spend his days looking after someone who can’t fucking function. Someone who breaks everything he touches.

Lector pads into the room and meows at Sting, then hops up on the bed and headbutts him. Sting covers his mouth to stifle a sob as he runs his fingers through Lector’s fur.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Uncle Wes will take care of you, I promise.”

Sting’s hands shake as he grabs some clothing and shoves it into his backpack, then scribbles a note and sets it on the desk.

_I’m sorry I can’t be better. Please take care of Lector. Thank you for trying to help me – none of this is your fault and I know you tried your best. I love you. _

He stares at the words for a long, long time before pulling on his backpack and climbing out the window, then disappearing down the street toward the bus station.

* * *

Sting ends up back at Ryan’s because he has nowhere else to go. The mix of relief and satisfaction on Ryan’s face when he opens the door makes Sting feel sick, but Ryan is quick to take him back.

“I missed you so much, baby,” he murmurs, squeezing Sting’s arm and pulling him in for a kiss. He tastes like ashes. “C’mon. I’m happy you’re home.”

_This isn’t home, _Sting thinks, gaze dull as he crosses through the kitchen and into Ryan’s bedroom where he drops his backpack on the floor. Everything is dark and run-down, cardboard taped over the windows, empty beer bottles sitting on the bedside table.

“You look so tense,” Ryan says, sitting on the bed and pulling Sting down with him. “You okay?” Sting shrugs and Ryan sighs, squeezing his hand. “C’mere, baby. Lemme help.”

When Ryan’s hands find their way to the button of Sting’s jeans, he doesn’t say no.

Afterward, when Ryan falls asleep, Sting stumbles out of bed and into the washroom, trying to ignore the churning in his stomach and the aching discomfort between his legs. The boy in the mirror is a pathetic stranger, and when Sting sees the red marks on his neck and shoulders, he falls to his knees and throws up in the toilet.

It feels like hours later when he finally pushes himself to his feet. He can’t feel his hands and it takes him a few tries to turn the tap on and rinse his mouth out. Then he wobbles back toward the bed, sitting down heavily on the edge of the mattress and staring at Ryan’s back.

Something starts buzzing and it takes Sting a few seconds to realize it’s his phone. He fumbles around for it, eventually finding it in the pile of clothes on the floor next to the mattress. He stares at the screen for several seconds until the name _Uncle Wes _comes into focus and Sting immediately declines the call.

_Uncle Wes_  
17 missed calls  
27 messages

Sting groans, tossing the phone back to the floor. Why Uncle Wes gives a shit is beyond him. He’s done everything he can to try to help Sting, but there’s no point. Sting’s broken and the pieces don’t fit together anymore, and it’s just better when he can’t feel.

His gaze moves to the bedside table and the bottle of small, pink pills that sit next to the broken lamp. Sting recognizes them – he’s taken them before, from one of Ryan’s friends that Sting can’t remember. They had made him soft and sleepy and not quite real.

He grabs the bottle and tips a couple of the pills into his hand, staring at them and trying to push away the overwhelming sense of hopelessness. It’s suffocating; he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t do anything because his arms are heavy and he’s not worth anything at all.

Before he can change his mind, he swallows both pills dry. Then he drops his head into his hands, hoping that they kick in soon, because he doesn’t want to feel anything anymore. 


	12. rehabilitate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natsu helps present-day Sting to deal with his trauma and try to start a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for discussions of an unhealthy relationship, mention of rape/noncon (not graphic)

re· ha· bil· i· tate | \ ˌrē-ə-ˈbi-lə-ˌtāt  
transitive verb  
**: **to restore or bring to a condition of health or useful and constructive activity

** . **

**xiii**   
**winter**   
**age ** **nineteen**

** . **

Sting stops talking when he realizes his throat hurts. When he looks up from the couch, he can see the last rays of the sunset dipping behind the buildings before winking out and leaving the apartment in darkness. Natsu flicks on the coffee table lamp, then leans back against the couch, looking down at Sting.

“Your dad did this to you?” Natsu asks softly, brushing Sting’s hair back and running his finger along the thick white scar that stretches from his eyebrow past his hairline. Sting nods. “Fuck,” Natsu says, and Sting looks away, down at his arms and all the scars he’s put there.

“That’s not…” He trails off, rubbing his arms and moving to sit up. There’s a sudden discomfort in his chest, a not-quite-right feeling that this is too much, that he’s too much, that Natsu doesn’t need to deal with all this shit.

“Is he still alive?” Natsu asks, putting a gentle hand on Sting’s shoulder to keep him from moving. When Sting shrugs, Natsu makes a sound that’s half frustration, half a growl. “He’d better hope I never run into him.”

Sting can’t decide if he wants to cry or laugh, so he settles for a shaky exhale. His stomach hurts.

“’s not an excuse,” he says eventually. He can feel Natsu’s question and adds, “for doing all the shit I did, and for—for yelling, and hurting, and being so fucking stupid.” He’s so tired, and suddenly he feels very, very small. “I miss Rogue,” he whispers. “And Uncle Wes.”

Natsu doesn’t answer right away, just keeps a gentle pressure on Sting’s shoulder and continues to comb his fingers through Sting’s hair. “You haven’t talked to him?” he asks eventually. “Your uncle, I mean. Since...”

“Two years,” Sting says quietly. “I wanted to, I did, but I just...” Tears well up again and he groans, rubbing his face. He’s so tired of crying. Natsu makes a soft sound, then looks down at Sting contemplatively.

“Is your stuff still at Ryan’s?”

Sting’s stomach churns at the name. He nods.

“What’s his address?”

Sting blinks. “No, I don’t... it’s just...”

“Hey.” Natsu squeezes his shoulder comfortingly. “I’m not gonna kill him or anything, I just wanna get your things back.”

Sting thinks of his clothes in Ryan’s drawers and his toothbrush in the bathroom, and he’s about to shake his head when he remembers his backpack. It’s stuffed in the back of Ryan’s closet, empty except for a picture of him and Uncle Wes, and the stuffed bear.

He nods, staring down at the backs of his hands and saying, “Okay.”

* * *

Natsu doesn’t leave Sting alone for a week, and when he does, he’s only gone for a couple of hours. Sting feels like throwing up the entire time, and when Natsu reappears in the doorway, Sting nearly cries.

“Here.” Natsu hands Sting the backpack. His knuckles are scraped and bruised, and when Sting frowns at him, Natsu just shrugs. “He was uncooperative,” he says. “I had to negotiate.”

The next day they’re watching the news and a segment comes on about an anonymous tip leading to a drug bust and apprehension of someone selling to minors. Sting’s heart leaps and he wants to say thank you, but Natsu just hums and keeps washing the dishes.

When Sting shows Natsu the picture of him and Uncle Wes, Natsu puts it up on the fridge, next to a photo of himself kissing a girl with long, dark hair and cutoff jeans. She’s gorgeous, and it takes Sting a few days to work up the courage to ask about her.

“Him,” Natsu corrects, staring wistfully at the picture. “That’s Ellie. We lived in a small town and he couldn’t be himself.” His mouth twists in a way that looks like he might start to cry, and he turns back to the stove where he’s making spaghetti.

“You still love him,” Sting says, leaning forward on the counter. Natsu nods. “What happened?”

Natsu sighs. “I left.”

* * *

By the time Natsu goes back to school for the new semester in January, Sting has been sober for seventeen days. He spends the morning trying to read, and when anxiety sets in at lunch time, he starts to clean. When Natsu gets home just before dinner, Sting has scrubbed nearly every surface in the apartment.

“You doin’ okay?” Natsu asks, dropping his backpack on the floor by the front door. He’s got a stack of papers in his hands that he sets down on the counter.

“Mm.” Sting tips his head side to side noncommittally.

“You stayed here?”

Sting nods, even though Natsu would know if he’d left. He doesn’t have keys to the apartment, and nobody would have buzzed him back into the building. For now, not having that option makes him feel safe.

“I’m proud of you,” Natsu says, squeezing Sting’s shoulder as he heads toward the bedroom to change. The words sting just a little – an echo of Uncle Wes and a kindness Sting didn’t deserve. This time, though, he lets himself accept it. He’s going to do it right this time.

He settles down by the counter and looks at the papers, realizing it’s a pile of brochures. One of them is for Alcoholics Anonymous, which he makes a face at but pulls closer to him. There’s one for trauma therapy, another for support groups for adult victims of child abuse, and one for the sexual assault center.

He frowns at it. “What’s this for?” he asks, looking over at Natsu as he comes back out of the bedroom wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. Natsu raises an eyebrow at him and Sting’s eyes widen. “I didn’t...” Sting hesitates, then tries again. “Ryan didn’t—”

“Sting,” Natsu says gently, reaching over the counter and squeezing his hand, “You were sixteen and drunk, and he was four years older than you. That’s not sex, that’s rape.” Sting flinches at the word but doesn’t let go of Natsu’s hand. “Did you want to sleep with him?” Natsu asks.

Sting shakes his head. “No, I… but I said…”

“You weren’t in a healthy relationship with Ryan,” Natsu continues. “You were taken advantage of, drugged, and assaulted by someone when you were still just a kid. Even if you had said yes and had wanted it, he was an adult and you weren’t, and that’s wrong.”

“I wasn’t a kid,” Sting says softly, staring down at the brochure. It’s bright purple and there are daisies on it.

“You were,” Natsu says. “You’ve had to be grown up since you were really little, but you weren’t an adult. You were a kid when your dad hurt you, and a kid when you ran away, and a kid when Ryan took advantage of you. _Now_ you’re an adult, and now you’re making the right decisions.”

Sting’s not sure what to do with that. He’s too surprised to cry, so he just squeezes Natsu’s hand back and then spends the rest of the afternoon reading through every brochure.

“Will you come with me?” he asks after supper. He picks at his salad, not meeting Natsu’s eyes. “To the meeting, I mean. I don’t think I can do it alone.”

Asking for what he needs is terrifying, and he doesn’t even hear Natsu’s answer the first time over the frantic pounding of his heart. Eventually Natsu touches Sting’s arm, not commenting on the flinch as he says, “Of course.”

* * *

Sting doesn’t talk at all at the first AA meeting – he spends the entire time holding Natsu’s hand and biting the inside of his lip to keep from crying. The next day he has an appointment with a trauma therapist, and then a group at the sexual assault center, and by the end of January he feels like he’s been ripped to pieces.

“I can’t do this,” he whispers to himself one night when he’s curled up on the sofa bed in the living room, holding the stuffed bear tightly against his chest. Everything aches and he can’t stop shaking, and he’s torn between knocking on Natsu’s bedroom door to ask for help and running away. He’s exhausted and miserable and he just wants to not fucking _feel_ anymore.

His phone is sitting on the table beside the couch and he grabs it, opening up the photos folder and staring at a picture of him and Rogue that he’d managed to find, years ago, when Uncle Wes had brought all his thing from his dad’s house. In the picture they’re six or seven, sitting in the grass near the playground under the hot summer sun. Sting’s got long, curly hair, and he’s kissing Rogue’s cheek while Rogue smiles shyly and holds a bouquet of dandelions that Sting had picked for him.

“I’m sorry,” Sting whispers, and he’s not sure if he’s apologizing to Rogue or himself. The look on his younger self’s face is one of pure adoration, and he can almost remember the innocent way that he’d loved Rogue since the moment they’d met. “I miss you so much.”

He wipes at his cheeks, closing the photos and opening an internet tab. Before he can stop himself, he types _Rogue Cheney_ into the search bar, holding his breath as the results load.

The first link is Rogue’s Facebook page. Sting clicks on it with shaking hands, and his heart does something funny as he stares at the profile picture. Rogue’s hair is long and pulled back in a ponytail, and he’s smiling at something off screen, silhouetted by the sunset.

It’s the same smile Sting remembers from sleepovers and movie nights and playing Super Smash Bros together.

_Student at University of Pentstemon,_ it says next to the picture. Sting doesn’t recognize the city. He clicks on the Photos tab, and slowly starts to scroll through the pictures of Rogue.

There aren’t many that are public, but Rogue looks happy in all of them. There’s one of him and his parents and Gajeel, who looks so much older than Sting remembers. Another is of Rogue and a girl with white blonde hair that Sting doesn’t recognize, with the caption _Mathlete Champions 2017!_ There’s a few of Rogue in front of paintings in a gallery; another of him at the beach with his hair in a long braid; one of him with glasses, laughing at something an unfamiliar boy is saying.

Something aches in Sting’s chest, but it’s not the familiar pull of grief. There’s a bittersweet sadness there, mixed with a sense of contentment. Rogue is okay. Rogue is happy.

And for some reason, even though Sting probably won’t ever see him again, Sting wants to make him proud.

He flips through a few more photos, then sets the phone down on the table and kicks off the blankets. Then he heads down the hallway, hesitantly knocking on Natsu’s door, and when Natsu opens it, Sting says, “I need help.”

* * *

“What do you want to do?” Natsu asks a few months later over breakfast. Sting frowns at him. “For a career, I mean.”

Sting chews his bottom lip – he already knows the answer to Natsu’s question, but he’s been avoiding it.

“What did you wanna be when you were a kid?” Natsu asks instead.

Sting sighs. “A cop,” he says quietly. “Like my dad.”

They’re both quiet for a minute and then Natsu nudges Sting’s foot under the table. “Do you still want to?” he asks. When Sting doesn't answer, he adds, “That doesn’t make you like him, you know that, right?”

“You don’t know that,” Sting says, stabbing his chicken with his fork. He’s angry, suddenly, and he hates it. None of this is Natsu’s fault – he's done nothing but help, but he’s the only person in Sting’s life right now, and it’s hard not to project on him sometimes. “I already turned out just like him.”

“Stop that,” Natsu says, kicking his shin. “You’re not like him and you know it.”

“I—”

“Nope.” Natsu shakes his head. “I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you talk shit about yourself. You’re better than that.” Sting glares at him half-heartedly and Natsu flicks a pea at him. “So. You still wanna be a cop?”

“Yeah. I, uh... never finished school, though.” Sting tries to keep the red flush of embarrassment from rushing to his cheeks.

“High school, you mean?”

“Mm. I barley finished grade nine.”

“Do you want to?”

Sting frowns. “Go to high school?”

Natsu looks like he’s about to be exasperated but then thinks better of it, and Sting’s relieved. It’s taken a while for Natsu to figure out that Sting doesn’t know a lot of things that he takes for granted – things like how to open a bank account or drive a car.

“No,” Natsu says, shaking his head. “You can upgrade. It’s called a GED – it's a high school equivalent but you can take the courses online or at the college.”

“Oh.”

“You want me to check it out for you?” Natsu offers. “Actually, why don’t you come with me tomorrow? I can take you to student services and then you can go to the Starbucks while I’m in class.”

Sting chews his lip uncertainly. “There’s, um... is there a different place I can go?” Natsu tips his head, puzzled. “There’s a liquor store across the street from the Starbucks,” Sting says quietly, cheeks burning with shame.

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” Natsu says. “I’m an idiot. Of course.”

* * *

School is _hard._ Sting nearly gives up after the first few days, but Natsu doesn’t let him. They do their homework together at the kitchen table with popcorn and iced coffee – Natsu reading about art history, Sting trying to figure out how the hell to do trigonometry.

Between school, therapy and AA meetings, Sting finds he doesn’t have time to think about drinking. The cravings that had nearly been unbearable in January are intermittent by August, and manageable by December.

At Christmas, Sting goes home with Natsu. His parents are sweet and welcoming, but Sting feels awkward and out of place, especially when he overhears Natsu asking his mom to not offer wine with Christmas dinner.

The day after Christmas, Sting knocks on Natsu’s bedroom door and is surprised to find him crying.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, sitting down on the end of the bed where Natsu is sitting with his legs against his chest. Natsu doesn’t answer, pressing his forehead to his knees and biting back a sob. Sting moves closer, chest aching as he watches Natsu’s shoulders shake.

“I miss him so much,” Natsu says eventually, rubbing his face and sniffling. He holds out his phone, which he’s been gripping tightly, and Sting looks down at a picture on the screen of Natsu kissing Ellie’s cheek. “I talked—just got off the phone with his mom,” Natsu says. “She doesn’t know either.”

“Doesn’t know what?” Sting asks.

“Where he is.” Natsu rubs his face. “He disappeared after I left, with his new boyfriend and... he stopped talking to me, hasn’t answered my texts or calls in a year and I thought maybe his mom would know but she said she hasn’t heard from him either. He’s just gone.” Another sob bursts out of Natsu and Sting wraps his arm around Natsu’s shoulder. “’s my fault,” Natsu manages around the tears. “I shouldn’t have left, I’m so fucking stupid and he’s gone, and I c-can’t find him, and I miss him so fucking much.”

Natsu’s tears tug at Sting’s heart and he holds him closer, realizing that he’s crying too.

“I’m sorry,” Sting says, and the apology is both for Natsu and for Uncle Wes, who Sting can picture in the same place, trying and trying to find Sting and never being able to. “I’m so, so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter features .... the return of Rogue! Finally, I know, it's taken forever, but the rest of this story is Stingue (with side Gratsu), I promise.


	13. absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting gets some good news, but he needs to make some things right before he can move on with his new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I said Rogue would be in this chapter but I changed the order, so I *promise* he's in the next one. This chapter is heavily inspired by Zuko and Uncle Iroh's reunion in Avatar.

ab·so·lu·tion | \ ˌab-sə-ˈlü-shən  
noun  
**: **the act of forgiving someone for having done something wrong or sinful

**.**

**xiv  
spring  
age twenty-one**

**.**

A week after Sting celebrates two years of being sober, he gets a letter from the Crocus Police Academy.

“I can’t open it,” he says, staring at his name, typed in thick block letters, and trying to ignore the sensation that he isn’t quite real. Natsu, who is sitting across from him at the kitchen table, kicks his ankle.

“You’ve been working your ass off for this for almost a year,” Natsu says, nudging the letter toward Sting. “C’mon. You can do it.”

Sting runs his fingers across the envelope, thinking back to the months of being subjected to nearly every test possible – a physical evaluation, psychological assessment, written testing, fingerprinting, even a polygraph test. At first, he’d been certain that the academy wouldn’t even consider him with his – as Natsu put it – “colorful past.” But he didn’t have a criminal record, and between the letter of recommendation from his AA sponsor and the addictions program where he’d started to volunteer, they’d seen past it and let him go through the application process.

Now he just has to open the letter.

“I can’t,” he says, more to himself than Natsu, but despite the words he slowly slides his finger under the seal. He tugs out the paper, takes a deep breath, then starts to read out loud. _“Mister Eucliffe, we would like to congratulate you on your acceptance into the Crocus Police Academy.”_

The words take a minute to sink in, and by the time the word _acceptance _finally registers in Sting’s brain, Natsu’s already hugging him.

“I knew you could do it,” he says, squeezing Sting tightly, then pulling back to look at the letter. _“The first session begins on April 7th,”_ Natsu keeps reading. “Shit, that’s in two weeks.”

A flash of panic runs through Sting and he sets the letter down, exhaling shakily and focusing on the wood grain pattern of the table. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “I did—it’s real. I’m gonna… fuck, what if I can’t—”

“Hey.” Natsu nudges his shoulder and sits down next to him. “You can do this. Look at how far you’ve come. Two years ago, you were throwing up on my shoes, and now you’re here.” He squeezes Sting’s hand. “You deserve this.”

Sting swallows heavily, closing his eyes and counting backwards from twenty as he tries to even out his breathing. It’s all hitting him at once – he’ll have to move back to Crocus, back to the place where his life fell to pieces. Back to the police station where he’d spent afternoons with his dad, to the place he’d first met Rogue, to the place where he’d lost everything.

He’d considered staying in Danston, back when he’d first decided to apply. There’s a police academy here too, and he could keep living with Natsu, keep going to the same therapist, keep going to the meetings where he knows everyone.

But something in him knows that he has to go home.

“I have to leave,” he says quietly, and he only realizes he’s crying when a wet spot appears on the letter. “I have—it’s on the other side of the country.” He looks up at Natsu, who also has tears in his eyes. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Natsu says, wrapping an arm around Sting’s shoulders. “But I’m so, so proud of you and I know you can do this.”

Sting nods slowly, staring at the words through a blurry haze of tears. A sensation that he doesn’t quite understand floods through him as he stares at the address, and it takes him a second to realize that it’s pride.

“I can do this,” he whispers. He’s about to keep reading the letter when a painful sense of longing hits him, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

He wants to show the letter to Uncle Wes.

His tears fall harder as the sensation intensifies, and all he can picture is a kind face and gentle touch, and a voice whispering, “I will always love you, no matter what.” Sting’s mind skips through memory after memory with him – they’re chaotic and scattered and full of disappointment. Every one of them ends in hurt and tears.

But when he looks down at the letter and reads the first line over and over again, he’s certain that this is finally going to make Uncle Wes proud.

* * *

The next week is a blur of packing, phone calls and paperwork. Finding an apartment is easy, and Sting makes sure it’s as far away from his old home as possible. His new roommate, a guy named Rufus, doesn’t flinch when Sting talks about addiction and finding a new AA group, and Sting nearly cries with relief.

Natsu drives him all the way across the country – they make a road trip out of it, taking advantage of the few days they have left together. When Natsu eventually has to head back home, Sting’s certain he’s going to fall apart, but Natsu reassures him that he’ll be back to visit in a month, and they manage to say goodbye with only a few tears.

Unpacking and getting settled keeps Sting’s mind busy, and he manages not to think about Uncle Wes until three days before the classes at the academy start.

_What if he moved? _he texts Natsu as he stares at the map on his phone. _Maybe he’s gone. _It’s the fourth excuse he’s come up with in less than twenty-four hours, and they’re all starting to wear thin.

_Only one way to find out, _Natsu replies. _Get your ass up there and apologize. _

* * *

Uncle Wes does still live in Saint Portage, in the same home with the bright blue door and a mailbox with the name _Eucliffe _painted across the side. Sting stares at it from his spot on a bench across the street, and all he can think about is the time he’d kicked it down in a rage before he’d run away. He can’t remember anything else other than he’d yelled at Uncle Wes to—

Sting shakes his head, swallowing down the tears that keep threatening to make an appearance. His cheeks are hot, and he tips his head up, blinking a few times in an unsuccessful attempt to compose himself. Then he looks down at the acceptance letter in his hands that he’s folded and unfolded a thousand times.

_It’s not enough, _Sting thinks, running a hand over his face. Even if Uncle Wes is home, even if he opens the door, Sting has no idea what to say.

_I’m sorry for pushing you away._

_I’m sorry for calling you names._

_I’m sorry for being a stupid, selfish little boy._

_I’m sorry for taking advantage of your kindness, for hurting you, for breaking your heart again and again._

“I can’t do this,” he whispers, dropping his head into his hands and running his fingers through his hair. The tears escape despite his best efforts and he watches as they make dark patterns on his jeans.

He’s so goddamn sick of crying. He’s always been emotional, but he used to be better at hiding it. When he was little, he could push the tears away, lock them up where they couldn’t hurt him, where they couldn’t make his dad angry.

_Stop being such a baby and look me in the eye when I’m talking to you. _

Sting bites down on his lip, shaking away the memories as he wipes at his face. He looks up at the house again, then takes a deep breath and pushes himself to his feet.

Even if Uncle Wes slams the door in his face, Sting has to try. He has to apologize, has to show Uncle Wes that he’s more than just a damaged disaster.

Before he can change his mind, Sting darts across the street, flinching as a car blares its horn at him. When he catches his breath, he runs his fingers over the mailbox, regret swelling in his chest at the memory of splintered wood and furious words.

No matter what horrible things he’d yelled or what he’d broken, Uncle Wes’ response had been the same.

_This will always be your home. _

Sting tentatively pushes at the gate, and when it swings open, he steps over the cracked flagstone that he always used to trip over. Grass and weeds grow through crevices in the cement, pushing their way up and opening themselves to the sun.

Sting’s feet pull him toward the door, up the re-painted porch stairs, onto the front mat that says _welcome home. _The doorbell is covered with a sticky note that says _bell is broken, yell real loud!, _and Sting can’t help but laugh at it.

He reaches up and raps his knuckles softly against the wood.

There’s a disconcerting moment of silence, but Sting forces himself to stay on the porch, staring at a dirty spot just next to the door handle. He can’t leave. He has to do this, even if he’s certain he’s going to be sick.

The quiet is broken by heavy footsteps and a shout of, “Just a moment!” Sting barely has time to process the voice when the door swings open.

Uncle Wes stands there, filling the door like he’d always filled a room, large and bright and friendly. His hair is grayer around the temples and there are more lines by his eyes, but they’re the same bright, clear blue that Sting remembers.

“Sting?” Uncle Wes’ voice is hoarse and uncertain, and Sting’s so overwhelmed that he can’t even answer to his own name. When Uncle Wes reaches out and touches Sting’s cheek, the dam inside him bursts.

“I’m sorry,” Sting whispers, the academy letter crumpling in his hands as he starts to cry. “I’m so sorry, I’m…”

“You’re home.”

Uncle Wes opens the door all the way, grabbing Sting by the shoulders and pulling him into a crushing hug. Sting can’t stop the sobs as he presses his face against Uncle Wes’ shoulder, shoulders shaking while Uncle Wes runs a comforting hand over his back. It’s surreal – the last time he’d hugged Uncle Wes, he’d been small and scared and far too skinny. Now he’s a man, nearly as broad-shouldered as his uncle, but he still feels like a little kid.

“I’m sorry,” Sting sobs. “I fucked up; I was so stupid.”

“It’s okay,” Uncle Wes says, shaking his head as he hugs Sting tighter. “It’s okay, you’re home.”

The words hit Sting hard and a hundred different memories rush through him, leaving him nearly breathless.

_Uncle Wes picking him up from the hospital, kissing his forehead, bringing him home, changing his bandages, making him Kraft Dinner with hot dogs because it was his favorite. _

_Uncle Wes pulling Sting into a hug after the police brought him home, making him tea and honey, never getting angry at Sting for running away. _

_Uncle Wes listening as Sting told him he was a boy, hugging Sting, telling him that he’d love Sting no matter who he was. _

Sting tries to apologize again, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is another sob. His legs buckle out from under him and he nearly falls under the weight of all his grief, but Uncle Wes just pulls him closer.

“I’m so happy you’re home,” Uncle Wes murmurs, kissing Sting’s temple. “I missed you so much.”

Sting swallows hard, trying to catch his breath. “I’m sorry,” he manages again through the tears. “I was so fucking stupid and I h-hurt you, and you were always s-so nice to me, and I was awful, I fucked up so b-badly.”

“It’s all right,” Uncle Wes reassures him, but Sting shakes his head.

“It’s not,” he says, pulling back and wiping at his face as he looks up at the bright blue of Uncle Wes’ eyes. “I didn’t—I’m sober now. I quit, I promise, I’m—it’s been two years and I h-haven’t… I got better.”

Tears run down Uncle Wes’ cheeks as he runs his thumb along the scar on Sting’s forehead. “I didn’t know if you were still alive,” he said softly, “or if you’d…” He trails off, shaking his head, and Sting aches with guilt.

“I screwed up,” he says, the words tumbling out of him in a rush. “I was so scared and I h-hated myself.” Uncle Wes’ gaze drops to the scars on Sting’s arms and his cheeks flush with shame. “I wanted to be better, I did, but I was so angry, and I disappointed you, and everyone, and I…” He trails off, then remembers the crumpled letter and holds it out to Uncle Wes with a shaking hand. “I did this right, I… I just wanted to make you proud.”

Uncle Wes doesn’t take the paper, just pulls Sting close and kisses his forehead again. “I’m already proud of you,” he says.

A fresh wave of tears spill down Sting’s cheeks as a mix of confusion and gratitude floods through him. “Why?” he whispers, desperately trying to understand.

“Because I love you,” Uncle Wes says, words rumbling in his chest. “And there’s nothing you could ever do to change that.” 

They stand like that for a long time, crying and holding each other as if the touch could make up for all the missing years. The letter falls from Sting’s hand, forgotten in the sea of emotions, and instead he grips Uncle Wes’ sweater tightly.

Uncle Wes pulls back after a bit and looks like he’s going to say something else when he’s interrupted by a loud meow. A fat, orange tabby cat appears behind him, staring at Sting curiously before approaching him and rubbing against his legs.

“Lector,” Sting breathes, crouching down and running his fingers through the cat’s fur. Everything settles into place, anxious uncertainty melting into something warm and familiar. When Lector mrowls at Sting and headbutts his fingers, the aching places inside him slowly start to fit themselves back together.

He’s finally home, and this time, he’s not going to run away.


	14. reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being back in Crocus is different than Sting expects, but it's made easier when he runs into someone very familiar.

re·union | \ (ˌ)rē-ˈyün-yən  
noun  
: the act of being brought together again

**.**

**xv  
summer  
age twenty-one**

**.**

Uncle Wes offers to let Sting stay with him in Saint Portage. His room is exactly the same as he’d left it, bed made neatly and window open to let in the warm summer breeze. A lump swells in Sting’s throat as the memories wash over him and he sits down hard on the edge of the bed, running his fingers across the blanket.

“I wanted it to be here for you,” Uncle Wes says quietly, sitting down next to Sting. “Just in case.”

Lector hops up as well, meowing and rubbing his head against Sting’s arm until he scratches behind Lector’s ears. “I wanted to come home,” Sting whispers, trying to tamp down the guilt that swells in his chest. “So badly, but…”

He focuses on the feel of Lector’s fur under his fingertips and exhales, letting his mind skip over the memories instead of delving deep into them.

_Just fuckin’ hit me. _

_I would never hurt you._

_You should. _

_No. Never. _

He thinks about apologizing again, but he knows words alone aren’t enough. Instead he digs in his pocket for the letter. It’s crumpled and stained from where he’d dropped it on the porch, but it’s still legible, and he hands it to Uncle Wes.

“I can’t stay here,” he says softly. “I’m trying to be better.”

Uncle Wes’ eyes widen as they scan the page, and by the time he reaches the bottom, his entire face has transformed into the warm, sunny smile that Sting remembers so well.

“You’re going to be amazing,” Uncle Wes says, eyes wet with tears.

“You don’t think…” Sting trails off, teeth worrying at his lower lip.

Uncle Wes shakes his head, setting the letter back down on the bed and taking both of Sting’s hands in his own. “You’re an incredible young man,” he says gently. “And you are nothing like your father.” 

* * *

Being in Crocus is strange, and a little bit overwhelming.

Rufus, Sting’s new roommate, is quiet and kind, but he isn’t Natsu. They Facetime as much as possible, but once Sting starts his courses at the academy, they only get to talk once or twice a week.

Uncle Wes being back in his life is new, too. At first Sting wants to see him every day, to make up for all the time they’ve lost. But he’d nearly had a panic attack the second time they’d seen each other, and Sting’s new therapist had suggested reintegrating into each other’s lives a little slower.

After a month, Sting starts to think about drinking.

“I found a meeting here,” he tells Natsu on the phone that night. “It’ll be weird to go without you.” He sighs, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Little constellations of glow in the dark stars are stuck to the ceiling, and they bring back gentle memories of nights in the tree fort with Rogue, staring up at the stars.

“You can do it,” Natsu says, and Sting believes him.

The meeting is the same as every other one he’s been to. Even in a new city with new faces, nothing changes, and it’s comforting in a way. When he stands up and says, “I’m Sting and I’m an alcoholic,” everyone welcomes him warmly, and he feels the tension in his chest start to fade away.

It’s easier to say, now. The first few meetings in Danston, he’d refused to speak. Natsu had encouraged him, but he’d stayed hidden in the back, watching everyone else talk about their life while he tried to convince himself that he didn’t belong there.

He hadn’t wanted to admit that he’d turned out just like the person he hated most.

“I’ve been sober for just over two years,” Sting says, playing with the beads of the bracelet he holds between his fingers. It’s not a rosary – Natsu had called them mala beads, something monks used to help them focus and meditate. He had given them to Sting a week after he’d left the hospital, and Sting hasn’t taken them off since.

“I just moved back here,” he continues, glancing up at the group. The unfamiliar faces are overwhelming, but he forces himself to smile. “I had a lot of trauma here… shitty stuff with my family. It really messed me up, so I’m gonna be here a lot.”

The rest of the meeting goes by in a blur of new faces and other people’s stories. Usually Sting’s good at paying attention, good at connecting with people, but it’s hard to focus tonight.

He closes his eyes, breathing slowly as he runs the beads between his fingers and counts backward from fifty. Being back here is a good thing – he’s doing it for the right reasons. He’s a better man that his dad ever was, and he’s going to prove it.

The meeting is almost over when a very familiar voice starts to speak.

“I’m Gajeel, and, uh…” There’s a pause. “I’m an addict, I guess. This is my first meeting.”

Sting’s eyes snap open and he stares across the room at the man sitting with his elbows on his knees. His hair is longer, and he’s got more piercings than Sting remembers, but it’s definitely Gajeel.

Sting’s chest tightens as a million memories come flooding back to him – afternoons with Rogue watching Gajeel’s football games, Gajeel teasing the two of them when they stood in line for the newest Harry Potter book, Gajeel driving them to movies when he got his license.

Then Sting’s gaze slips past Gajeel to the man sitting beside him, and Sting stops breathing.

It’s Rogue.

Sting stares, eyes wide and heart pounding. Rogue’s hair is long, almost to the middle of his back, and it’s pulled back in a messy ponytail. He’s got his ears pierced, and his face is leaner now – he’s not a little boy anymore, and something in Sting’s chest splinters.

_There’s something wrong with Abbey. _

_She’s gonna hate me. _

_I promised I wouldn’t tell. _

Sting doesn’t realize he’s crying until the woman next to him touches his knee and hands him a tissue. He wipes at his face quickly, trying to breathe around the tightness in his chest. So many feelings are warring inside him right now – hope, anger, betrayal, regret. Love.

“Fuck,” he whispers, swallowing hard and pushing his chair back.

Rogue looks up at him.

Sting freezes, then realizes that Rogue’s already seen him and doesn’t recognize him. It’s not surprising – Sting looks nothing like eleven-year-old Abbey, but there’s a part of him that wishes Rogue could see past all that to his best friend.

Chairs start to scrape along the floor around Sting and he blinks, realizing the meeting is over. He stands up slowly, trying desperately to decide whether to run away or walk over.

_Fuck it, _he thinks. There’s been too much trauma and anger and regret in his life already, and if Rogue’s here, there’s no way Sting’s going to lose him again.

He walks over before he can change his mind, and when Rogue looks at him curiously, Sting reaches out and touches his arm.

“Hey,” he says, hand trembling against Rogue’s sweater. “I, uh…”

There’s nothing Sting can say to describe how he’s feeling. If this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up, but he’s pretty sure it’s real. Rogue is real. Rogue is here, alive and breathing and frowning as he searches Sting’s face.

“I’m sorry, do I—” Rogue freezes mid-sentence, eyes widening in realization. “Abbey?”

A silence hangs between them, heavy and uncertain, and then Rogue grabs Sting’s arms and pulls him into a hug.

“Holy shit,” Rogue whispers as he holds Sting tight against him, pressing his face into Sting’s shoulder. Sting can feel Rogue shaking, heart picking up as he starts to cry. “I never thought—fuck, I’m…” He leans back, reaching up and touching Sting’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean… I just—”

“It’s okay,” Sting says, tipping his face into Rogue’s hand. “It wasn’t your fault, none of it, and I wanted to—I didn’t get to say goodbye, I…”

Sting trails off, tears running down his cheeks and over their hands. Nothing else exists except this moment – the rest of the conversations around them are just dull, background noise to the heavy slamming of Sting’s heart.

“I missed you so much,” Rogue says, voice breaking as he runs his thumb across Sting’s cheek. He pulls Sting close, pressing their foreheads together, then kissing Sting’s cheek. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I was so scared, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“I know,” Sting says, pulling Rogue close again and holding him tight. He can’t let go or the moment will end and he’s so scared that this isn’t real. “I know, and it wasn’t your fault.”

Rogue digs his fingers into Sting’s shoulders like he’s keeping him from floating away. Every time he starts to say something, the words dissolve into tears again, and neither of them can do anything but hold each other through wave after wave of emotions.

Eventually Gajeel coughs awkwardly next to them, and Sting reluctantly lets go of Rogue’s arms.

“Hey,” Sting says weakly. “It’s, uh… me. Abbey. Well, Sting, now. It’s been a while.” He wipes his cheeks and forces himself to make eye contact with Gajeel. There’s a familiar, haunted look behind Gajeel’s eyes, and before Sting can stop himself, he pulls Gajeel into a hug too. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Gajeel says, voice rough and uncertain as he pats Sting back. “Same.”

The three of them stand there for a moment, then Gajeel gives Rogue a knowing look and nods toward the door. “I’m gonna get Jeff to gimme a ride home,” he says. “You two’ve got a lot to talk about.”

* * *

Sting grips Rogue’s hand tightly as they step out of the building and into the night. It’s warm and muggy, and the air smells like lilacs.

“C’mon,” Rogue says, tugging on Sting’s hand and nodding down the street.

The treehouse is still standing in Rogue’s parent’s backyard, and they sneak up into it together, shuffling awkwardly until they’re lying in the same place they did when they were little. Their legs are a little too long, but neither of them complain as Rogue pulls Sting close and kisses the top of his head.

It’s like Sting never left.

“Sting.” Rogue says his name curiously, testing out the sound. “I knew, y’know. I mean, I didn’t know what to call it—that it was thing, that you could be a boy, but I knew.”

“I know,” Sting says, resting his head against Rogue’s shoulder. He feels so surreal, like he’s existing simultaneously as a child and his adult self, and both of them are safe and warm and loved. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Rogue doesn’t say anything, just runs his fingers up and down Sting’s arm with a slow, purposeful tenderness that makes Sting feel so alive. There aren’t many stars above them – the lights pollute the sky and hide them, but Sting knows they’re there, dancing in constellations behind the fake city brightness.

“I tried to find you,” Rogue says. “It makes sense that I couldn’t – you changed your name. But mom and dad tried so hard. They went to the hospital – they’d called the police, they wanted to make sure you were okay, but nobody would tell them anything. All they’d say is that you were safe, and you were leaving.”

Sting sighs, closing his eyes and cuddling closer to Rogue. “It was bad,” he says softly. “I was angry for a long time—I thought that things would have been okay if you hadn’t told your parents, but it was really bad.” He flexes his fingers, thinking of the cast he’d worn for weeks. “He broke my arm.”

“Oh my god,” Rogue says, turning until he can pull Sting closer and wrap both arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

“I didn’t want to admit that he was hurting me,” Sting says, swallowing back tears. “But he…” Sting lets out a shaky breath. “He could have killed me. You saved my life.” He presses himself as close to Rogue as he can, shivering as a cool breeze tickles the hair on the back of his neck. “I just wanted him to love me.”

Rogue’s quiet for a minute. Then he whispers, “I love you.” The words sink into Sting, filling the cold, lonely places inside of him. “I always have.”

A warm glow flows through Sting, heating his cheeks and making him feel dizzy. He leans back, pushing himself up on his elbow and brushing a stray hair out of Rogue’s face with shaky fingers. This feels so right. All the broken pieces in Sting are shifting, putting themselves back together with each gentle touch. Rogue’s eyes shine in the dim light of the moon, filled with tears, and Sting knows, now, why he has to keep going. Why he has to be better, stay sober, keep trying.

“I love you, too,” he says again, then leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Rogue’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I promised it would finally be Stingue!


	15. rebuild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting starts to build a new life with Rogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for first sexual experience after sexual trauma

re·build | \ (ˌ)rē-ˈbild  
noun  
: to restore to a previous state; to build again

**.**

**xv**   
**winter  
age twenty-one**

**.**

Despite everything changing, life goes on.

Loving Rogue is like being up in the tree fort – familiar and aching all at the same time. There’s no hesitation in the way they touch, in the way Rogue’s fingers trace gentle patterns across Sting’s scars, in the soft press of their lips. He loves Sting so fiercely, and Sting doesn’t always feel worthy of the way Rogue looks at him.

“I’ve done so much stupid shit,” Sting says one day while they’re sitting on the couch, Rogue’s head in his lap while he braids Rogue’s hair.

“We all have,” Rogue reassures him.

Sting shakes his head. “Not like this.” He gets to the end of the braid and studies it, then combs his fingers through it and starts again. “Not… I just…”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Rogue asks. The question catches Sting off guard, and he doesn’t answer for a moment. Rogue knows a lot of things about Sting’s life already, but not everything. Sting had moved to a different AA meeting, because being around Rogue would make it harder to be honest, and they haven’t talked much about it since.

“Yeah,” he says as he combs Rogue’s hair out of his face. “But some of it sucks. Most of it, actually. I don’t want you to…”

“I love you,” Rogue reassures him, and Sting knows he means it. “You can tell me anything.”

So Sting does. He talks about his mom’s death and his dad’s drinking, about the hospital and Uncle Wes and Officer Kelly. He talks about coming out, about becoming Sting, and then about losing himself again. He talks about the first time he drank, and the last time he drank, and how it took him almost dying at Natsu’s feet to get his shit together.

“I’m glad you met Natsu,” Rogue says, tipping his head back into Sting’s hands and gazing up at him.

“I would probably be dead without him,” Sting says quietly.

“I’m glad you’re not.”

“Me too.”

* * *

Training at the academy is a lot harder than getting his GED, but Sting is determined not to fail. Having Rogue around makes things easier, even when Sting is terrified.

They get pictures taken in a mall photobooth after a date one evening. In the first three they’re laughing, and in the last one Rogue is gazing at Sting like he’s the only person in the world. Sting keeps the picture in his wallet, and any time he’s afraid, he pulls it out and remembers why he has to be brave.

Eventually they move in together. Uncle Wes comes to help Sting pack his things, and when he sees the stuffed bear propped up on Sting’s bookshelf, he nearly starts to cry.

“It felt like...” Sting hesitates, taking the bear from Uncle Wes’ hands and running his fingers over the worn fur. “It reminded me of you.”

“I wish…” Uncle Wes swallows, his words thick with emotion as he sits down on the bed and stares at his hands. “I should have come for you.” Sting frowns. “Before,” Uncle Wes clarifies. “When you were little. Before he hurt you.” He looks up at Sting and his expression is so distraught that Sting nearly starts to cry. “When I got to the hospital, and you were… I hadn’t seen you in so long.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Sting says, sitting down on the bed and running his thumbs up the stuffed bear’s arms.

“I didn’t know,” Uncle Wes says, reaching over and covering Sting’s hand with his own. “If I had, I would have come, I promise.”

“I know,” Sting reassures him.

“You used to live in Saint Portage,” Uncle Wes says quietly. “Just down the street from me.”

Sting frowns. “I—we did?”

Uncle Wes nods. “When you were born, your dad was busy with work, and I helped your mom out sometimes. We’d go to the playground just down the street. You always loved the swings.”

“Why…” Sting hesitates, sifting through his memories and finding nothing. “I don’t remember.”

“I know,” Uncle Wes says. “You would have only been three or so when your mom passed away and your dad moved you here. I missed you so much. I loved having you for Christmas, too – you were a terror and liked to try to unwrap all the presents before Christmas morning.”

Sting laughs, wiping at his face once he realizes he’s started crying. “Sounds about right,” he manages.

“After Grammie died, your dad never brought you back,” Uncle Wes says sadly. “I called him, asked to visit, but he just…” He sighs. “I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t know what. He wasn’t a nice man, and I wish I could have gotten to you before he hurt you like that.”

Sting sighs, shifting closer to Uncle Wes. “You couldn’t have done anything,” he says quietly. “That wasn’t the first time he’d hurt me. He’d just been hiding it better before.” Uncle Wes makes a frustrated sound. “I’m glad I ended up with you, even if I was awful.”

“You weren’t awful,” Uncle Wes says. “You were scared and traumatized, and I didn’t know how to make it better.”

“I didn’t either,” Sting whispers, voice breaking as he leans in. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Uncle Wes says, and when he pulls Sting into a hug, Sting lets himself feel safe in the embrace.

* * *

A week later, Uncle Wes brings over a box of Sting’s things from his house to the new apartment. It’s mostly books, but there’s a stack of old photos at the bottom of the box that Sting’s never seen before.

“I don’t remember these,” he says to Rogue as they sit on the kitchen floor and go through them one by one. Sting’s in most of them – a blond toddler with a wild mess of curls and dirty sundresses. In one of them he’s riding on Uncle Wes’ shoulders, and in another they’re at the beach, with Sting playing in the sand. “I wish I could.”

“Trauma does funny things to your brain, love,” Rogue says gently.

Sting sighs. “I know. I just look happy, and I wish I could remember feeling that way.”

Rogue shuffles closer and wraps his arm around Sting, kissing his temple as he keeps flipping through photographs. At the very bottom of the stack is the photo Sting loves – the one of him and Rogue with the dandelions.

“I remember this one,” he says quietly, running his thumb over Rogue’s shy smile in the photograph. “I was happy.” 

“Me, too,” Rogue says. “Mom says I was inconsolable when the dandelions died.”

“I picked you new ones, though,” Sting says, pulling together a vague recollection of blue skies and yellow flowers. “Right?”

“You did.”

“Good.”

When they’re done sorting through the rest of the box, Sting takes the dandelion photo and pins it up on the middle of the fridge. 

* * *

One afternoon, nearly eight months after they find each other, Sting and Rogue are lying in bed, curled up together as the sun spills through the window. Rogue’s propped up on Sting’s bare chest, gazing at him and brushing Sting’s curls out of his eyes. When his fingers touch the scar that runs through Sting’s eyebrow, his expression turns sad.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I could have kept you safe, back then.”

“You did,” Sting replies, tipping his head to the side and kissing Rogue’s palm. “You were my only safe place. All those nights—every time I came to you and you let me stay, you kept me from getting hurt.”

Rogue sighs, leaning down and kissing the scar. “I didn’t understand,” he says. “If I had known what he—that...”

“You were just a kid, too,” Sting insists. “You did everything you could.”

“But if—”

“We can’t live in ‘if,’ darling,” Sting says gently. “We’re here now.” He tugs the elastic off the end of Rogue’s braid and wraps it around his wrist, then runs his fingers through Rogue’s hair. “I’ve loved you for a long, long time, and nothing’s going to take me away from you again.”

Rogue lets out a shaky sigh, shifting so he can kiss Sting. His fingers drift up Sting’s side, over his ribs, across the scars on his chest – the good ones, from six months ago, that make him feel more like the man he’s always been. Sting hums under the touch, pulling Rogue closer.

“I want you to make love to me,” he murmurs against Rogue’s lips. Rogue stills, pulling back and gazing down at Sting.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “We don’t—”

“I’m sure.” Sting’s hands are steady as he tucks Rogue’s hair behind his ears. Rogue knows about Ryan, about the pain and resentment and awful dreams. Sting cries sometimes, late at night when they’re curled under the blankets, and Rogue kisses his forehead and holds him close.

“Okay,” Rogue says, gaze soft and open. “We can stop anytime you want to. Only what you’re comfortable with.”

Sting nods. “I know,” he says, pulling Rogue back in for a kiss.

Rogue takes his time. He maps out the lines and curves of Sting’s body slowly, first with fingers and then with his lips, gentle kisses against soft skin. He touches every scar, even the ones on Sting’s wrists and forearms, and it feels like absolution. It’s like his body is forgiving him for hurting it, one kiss at a time.

“I love you,” Rogue whispers against Sting’s skin as he slides his hand under the band of Sting’s boxers. Sting lifts his hips, kicking away the fabric and doing the same for Rogue. They’ve been naked together before, but it’s never felt like this – holy and healing.

“Touch me?” Sting asks, pressing his forehead to Rogue’s and twining their fingers together.

“Where?”

“Here.” Sting rolls onto his side to face Rogue and settles their joined hands on the back of his thigh.

Rogue kisses him gently, fingers teasing and caressing and eventually slipping into him, slowly, like Sting is a precious thing. When Sting tenses he stops, but Sting quickly shakes his head and nudges him to keep going.

“Please,” he says, pressing his forehead to Rogue’s shoulder and gasping against his skin. He’s never felt like this before – never had someone touch him when he’s entirely here, sober and whispering _yes. _“It’s... it doesn’t hurt.” A quiet, breathy moan escapes him. “It feels good.”

Rogue curls his free hand around the back of Sting’s neck. “It’s supposed to feel good, love,” he says, and his voice is tinged with something quiet and sorrowful. “I’ll never hurt you.”

“I know,” Sting says. “I know.”

Rogue insists on Sting being on top of him, thighs shaking on either side of his hips, hands fisted in the sheet near Rogue’s hair. “There you go,” Rogue murmurs, stroking Sting’s back gently as he sinks down, taking Rogue inside him. “I’ve got you.”

“Fuck,” Sting whispers. He slows and then stops, just because he can, and Rogue doesn’t complain. He just keeps murmuring quiet reassurances, staying perfectly still and letting Sting take the lead.

“You’re gorgeous,” Rogue says, rubbing his thumb in circles over Sting’s hip. “You’re perfect.” Sting shivers, then shifts down the rest of the way, gasping at the sensation. It’s so different. He’s not broken, not aching, not just a warm body that’s too tired and scared to say no.

With Rogue, he’s important. Under Rogue’s gentle touch, with Rogue inside of him and underneath him, Sting feels precious. Loved. Safe.

When he slowly starts to move, a quiet curse spills from Rogue’s lips and his fingers tighten around Sting’s hip. He tips his head back and his hair spreads across the pillow like spilled ink, and Sting’s never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. When Sting leans down and kisses Rogue’s throat he can feel Rogue’s pulse, thrumming beneath his skin as he whispers Sting’s name.

Sting knows Rogue’s holding back – he’s trying to hold still, instead letting Sting move and figure out what feels good. Sting rocks forward, listening to Rogue’s breathless moans and smiling because he did that. He made Rogue feel good.

“You can move,” Sting says, voice shaky as he brushes his lips along Rogue’s jaw. “It’s okay.”

Rogue shivers, sliding one hand down to Sting’s thigh and very slowly thrusting his hips up. The movement sends sparks through Sting and he curses next to Rogue’s ear.

“Do that again,” he says breathlessly, and Rogue does. Everything is warmth and light, and tiny sparks of pleasure that build and build. Rogue’s face is open, and he keeps making tiny, joyful sounds between whispers of Sting’s name.

“You’re so good,” he whispers, pulling Sting in for a kiss. “You feel so good. I love you so much.”

And then he shifts his hand down between Sting’s legs and waits for a nod before touching Sting’s cock.

“Fuck,” Sting whispers, dropping his forehead to Rogue’s shoulder and shuddering. “Yeah, th-that…” Rogue thrusts upward again, stroking Sting with one hand while caressing his hip with the other.

Rogue moans and pants and kisses beneath Sting’s ear, and when he whispers, “Let go, my love,” Sting does.

The sensation is overwhelming, starting from where Rogue’s touching him and flooding outward until he’s shaking. Everything feels warm and his cheeks are flushed, and a wave of dizziness washes over him as Rogue moans his name.

Sting doesn’t realize he’s crying until Rogue pulls him close, rolling them both onto their sides and kissing Sting’s cheeks. “It’s okay,” Rogue says as he wipes away the tears. “You’re safe. What’s wrong?”

“I…” Sting can’t speak, still trembling and not quite able to breathe. Rogue takes Sting’s hand and places it on his chest, then takes a few deep breaths for Sting to follow. Eventually the shaking subsides and Sting’s left feeling warm and exhausted.

“Did I hurt you?” Rogue asks, concerned.

“No,” Sting says quickly. “No, it felt… that…” Heat rushes to his cheeks and he stares down at their joined hands. “I’ve never…”

“Never what?” Rogue asks gently.

“Never…” Sting gestures vaguely between them, refusing to look Rogue in the eye.

“Wait,” Rogue says suddenly. “You’ve never had an orgasm before?”

Sting shakes his head, willing the red to disappear from his cheeks as he presses his forehead to Rogue’s chest. “I didn’t… I never touched myself, I hated all of it, and then Ryan didn’t care, ever, and I thought…” He exhales. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Rogue makes a sad sound and pulls Sting close, kissing the top of his head and wrapping an arm around him. “It’s supposed to feel good,” he says, voice muffled by Sting’s hair as they cuddle in the afternoon sun. “And I promise it always will.”


	16. recommence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting is graduating from the police academy but is scared he can't handle the responsibility. Rogue's there to help him through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter made me cry several times writing it, but it was good tears instead of sad ones. Also, starting next chapter we are coming up on the timeline of [how to become a wildfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074658) and you'll be getting that story from Sting's perspective!

re·com·mence | \ (ˌ)rē-kə-ˈmen(t)s  
verb  
**: **to undergo a new beginning

**.**

**xvi  
spring  
age twenty-two**

**.**

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Sting picks at a stray thread in his white gloves, swallowing hard to keep the nausea at bay. Rogue takes them from him gently, tugging at the string until it breaks and then holding them out to slip them onto Sting’s hands.

“You’re not going to throw up,” he reassures Sting. “You’re going to be fine.”

Sting chews his lip, staring down at where Rogue is now gripping his gloved hands. “I don’t…” He sighs.

“Don’t what?”

“Feel like I… fit,” Sting admits quietly, looking up at the twelve other people from his class who are also graduating the academy today. They’re about to cross the stage, and Sting’s anxiety is hitting him in a way that it hasn’t since the first time he stood up in an AA meeting and admitted he was an alcoholic. 

“Why don’t you fit?” Rogue asks, touching Sting’s cheek and pulling his gaze back to soft, brown eyes.

Sting sighs, tipping his head into Rogue’s touch. “They’re all good,” he says, then shakes his head because that’s not what he means. “I mean—they’re not like me. They’re good people, they’ve always been, and I’m… I am now, but I wasn’t always, and I just—”

“Sting.” Rogue leans in and kisses his forehead. “You’ve always been a good person. Nothing could change that.”

Sting swallows hard and wraps his arms around Rogue’s waist, pressing his forehead to Rogue’s shoulder and holding him close. He wants to agree with Rogue, but it’s hard. Some days he knows it’s true, and other days all he can think about is how he’s done so many awful things.

“You’re my favorite person,” Rogue says, voice muffled as he presses his face into Sting’s unruly curls. “You always have been.” Then he pulls back and squeezes Sting’s arms. “Go on,” he says, nodding toward the edge of the stage where everyone else is lined up. “You can do it.”

* * *

Sting doesn’t remember most of the ceremony – it’s a blur of people talking and clapping and lights flashing as pictures are taken. By the time he finally finds Natsu, Rogue and Uncle Wes afterward, he’s exhausted, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Uncle Wes says, hugging Sting tight. “You’ve come so far.”

Sting laughs wetly, rubbing his face with a gloved hand. “Thank you,” he says, and the smile Uncle Wes gives him makes him feel so, so loved.

“You did great,” Natsu says, holding out his arms and pulling Sting into a tight embrace. His voice goes softer as he adds, “I knew you could do it.”

They go out for dinner afterward, and it takes Sting a second to realize that it’s the same restaurant that Uncle Wes took him to on his twelfth birthday. For some reason it makes him want to cry. Then Uncle Wes tells the waitress why they’re celebrating, and the tears turn to embarrassment as Sting’s face goes red and he tries to hide in Rogue’s shoulder.

“Uncle Wes,” he groans when the waitress slips him a piece of cake after dinner – the same kind they give for free on kid’s birthdays. “I don’t need—”

“Sting,” Natsu says, kicking his ankle under the table. “You deserve this. Now shut up and eat your cake.”

* * *

Natsu stays with them for a few days after the ceremony. The first time Natsu and Rogue had met, Sting had been so nervous that he’d nearly thrown up. But Natsu had hugged Rogue without a second thought, and now they’re all friends, sitting on the couch and laughing and throwing popcorn at each other like they’ve known each other forever. 

“I’m so happy for you,” Natsu says when he finally has to leave. He squeezes Sting’s hands, then pulls him into a hug. They stand like that for a while, and when Sting finally pulls back, he realizes Natsu is crying.

“What’s wrong?” Sting asks quickly, but Natsu shakes his head.

“No, ‘s fine,” he insists, wiping his face with his sleeve. “’m just all…” He trails off and Sting’s hit with a realization.

“You haven’t found him,” he says gently. In all the excitement of graduating, he’d forgotten about Natsu’s search for Ellie. Natsu sighs, tipping his head up and trying to catch his breath.

“No,” he says eventually. “I haven’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Sting sighs. “Maybe…. When I start working, maybe I can help.”

Natsu nods, but Sting can see the defeat in his eyes, and he wishes desperately that there was something he could do.

* * *

Sting starts work at his dad’s old precinct a week later, and when it finally comes time to head out the door for his first shift, the anxiety and doubt he’s been working so hard to avoid hit him like a punch to the chest. He sits down hard on the couch, leaning forward on his arms and staring at the police cap he’s holding in both hands. All he can think about is how one just like this used to hang on the hook by the front door when he was little.

“What if I’m just like him?”

“Sting.” Rogue crouches down in front of him, tipping his chin up until they’re looking at each other. “You can do this.”

“But what if I can’t?” Sting says, shaking his head and gripping the cap tighter. “What if something bad happens and I wanna drink again?”

“You’ve been sober for three years,” Rogue says, running his thumb across Sting’s cheek. “I can’t promise that you won’t want to, but if you do… you know how to handle it. You’ll call your sponsor, you’ll go to a meeting, you’ll see your therapist.”

Sting nods uncertainly, bouncing his knee. “I don’t want to be like him,” he says, rubbing his face. “I never wanted to be him and then I _was, _I fucked up so badly and did so much stupid shit, and now—how can I be a cop?”

“Because you’ve learned from those mistakes,” Rogue replies. He moves up onto the couch next to Sting, running his fingers through Sting’s hair. “You’re a good person, love. You have so much compassion and such a big heart. You are _nothing _like your father.”

Sting tries to take deep breaths, but they get stuck in his chest, so he focuses on the crease of his pants and the shine of the shoes that peek out from under the hem.

“I’m scared,” he says, turning to look at Rogue.

“I know,” Rogue says, “and that’s what makes you different. You want to be better.” He kisses Sting’s forehead. “You can be scared and still go on.”

Sting exhales, nudging Rogue’s nose and kissing him. He lets the press of their lips pull the tension from him and ground him to the present.

“You’re going to do so much good,” Rogue says, wiping tears from Sting’s cheeks as he pulls back. “The world needs more people like you.”

Sting laughs through the tears. “More people like you,” he replies, but Rogue shakes his head. 

“It’s easy to make good choices when you’ve never been forced into bad ones,” Rogue says. “It’s much harder to choose the right thing when everything in your life has hurt you. You’ve been through so much. The world has hurt you over and over, but every day you choose to be brave, and I’m so, so proud of you.”

Rogue wraps his arms around Sting, pulling him close and stroking his hair as he cries. The tears start off quiet, but quickly turn to loud, choking sobs that shake Sting’s entire body. Sting knows that it used to scare Rogue how hard he cried, but Rogue knows now that he needs it.

There’s a loud _mrowl _and a dip on the couch as Lector hops up next to Sting, headbutting him and crawling onto his lap. Sting laughs, wiping at his face and scratching behind Lector’s ears.

“Thank you,” Sting says to Rogue as Lector arches into the touch, flicking his tail against Sting’s chest. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Rogue says, kissing Sting’s nose and straightening his jacket. “And I know you’re going to be great.”

* * *

The precinct is exactly like Sting remembers it. There’s lots of new faces, but some that used to come around on weekends and play poker with his dad. He’s pretty sure they haven’t bought a new coffee machine over the past ten years, and the desks are still arranged in the same order.

Sting scans the nameplates as he walks through the room. He’s not supposed to meet the captain in a couple of hours, but he has something to do before he officially starts to work here.

Kelly’s desk is in the exact same place as it was before. Stacks of paper and file folders are piled haphazardly around the computer, and three cups of cold coffee sit next to the phone. Kelly is sitting in her chair, squinting at her computer and grumbling under her breath.

“Sergeant now, huh?” Sting says, reaching out and tapping the nameplate on her desk. “Congrats.”

Kelly looks up at him, a frown creasing her face. Her hair is gray around the temples now, but she still has the same eyes.

“Are you the new officer?” she asks, pushing back from the desk and standing up. “You’re here a bit early.” She offers her hand and he shakes it, trying to keep himself from trembling.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I, um…”

He’s overwhelmed with emotion, suddenly – it’s like he’s eleven again, curled up against her in his bedroom closet, wishing he were anywhere else.

“You look familiar,” Kelly says, tipping her head to the side as she studies him. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Sting nods, swallowing down the anxiety. “Yeah,” he says. “I, uh… I used to be Abbey.”

Kelly’s eyes widen as she searches his face, a mix of hope and disbelief in her eyes. “Abbey?” she whispers. “Abbey Eucliffe?”

Sting nods, rubbing his sweaty hands on his pants. “It’s Sting, now,” he says. His tongue feels thick in his mouth and he tries not to stutter. Everything he was going to say has disappeared, and all he can think about is sitting on Kelly’s lap in the hospital, crying while she told him that everything was going to be all right. “I know it’s been a long time, but I wanted to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” she asks. The expression on her face is still a mix of amazement and disbelief, and she looks like she wants to hug him.

“That I’m here because of you,” Sting says, forcing himself to keep looking at her. His cheeks are burning but he needs to do this. “I wanted to be…” He blinks, trying not to cry. “You saved my life.”

“Oh, honey,” Kelly says, and this time she does hug him. He can’t help the tears now, and a small part of him realizes that crying on his superior officer’s shoulder on his first day of work probably isn’t the best first impression. A bigger part of him doesn’t care, because he’s finally saying thank you to the person who helped him, even when he didn’t want to be helped.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says quietly.

Sting lets out a wet, shaky sigh and pulls back, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I almost wasn’t,” he admits. He thinks of the tears and anger, the drunken fights and the scars on his arms, then pushes it all away and focuses on his new life instead.

“I’m here now,” he says softly, and lets himself feel proud. “I did it.”


	17. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting and Rogue's relationship progresses, and Natsu makes an important discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of the protests and the horrific actions of the police – currently and historically – I wanted to take the time to comment on the impact of those events on this story. First of all, I wholeheartedly support Black Lives Matter and ALL of the protests, including (and especially) defunding the police. Cops are bastards who use their power to hurt, oppress and murder people. It’s a racist institution that needs to be dismantled for so many reasons. 
> 
> So, why is this story heavily feature the police if I feel that way? Honestly, it wasn’t originally going to. Sting wasn’t supposed to be a major character in [how to become a wildfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074658?view_full_work=true) and he didn’t have a backstory when I started to write him. Then he started to become a source of safety and comfort for Gray; someone he could trust to help if he needed it. It was an ideal – someone who was powerful enough to change things, but kind enough to use that power for good. 
> 
> Sting’s story here is one of someone using their trauma to help other people. It’s not representative of real life, and I recognize that this isn’t the kind of relationship that police have with people. It’s not the kind of relationship that I’ve had with the police either. It’s wishful thinking. 
> 
> I had considered not finishing the story, but it’s important to me, so I’ve decided on this, instead. I’m going to continue to follow the plot of [how to become a wildfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074658?view_full_work=true), and then Sting’s going to make some different decisions that will involve him leaving the police force and focusing on working with people and trauma instead. 
> 
> In addition, for each remaining chapter, I’m going to donate $20 to Black Lives Matter.

home \ ˈhōm  
noun  
**: **a familiar or usual setting:congenial environment  
_also_ **: **the focus of one's domestic attention

**.**

**xvii**  
**spring**  
**age twenty-four**

**.**

Sting proposes to Rogue completely by accident.

“I can’t believe it’s been five years.” Sting stares down at the sobriety chip in his hand, running his thumb over the raised ‘V.’ They’re sitting up in the tree house in Rogue’s parent’s back yard, wrapped in a blanket to stave off the chilly night air.

“You’ve come so far,” Rogue says, kissing Sting’s cheek and shuffling closer to him. Sting returns the kiss, then looks out across the yard toward the house. The lights are off – it’s just past midnight – but Sting remembers the view from when he’d slept up here as a little kid. He’d stay hidden, watching Rogue’s mom kiss his forehead and Rogue’s dad help him with homework, wondering why his dad didn’t love him the same way.

The memories ache. It’s worse than usual today, tugging at his stomach and making him feel untethered, and he grips the sobriety chip a little harder. Then Rogue’s hand closes around his and he runs his thumb gently across Sting’s wrist.

Sting exhales, turning his hand and sliding their fingers together so that the coin is pressed between their palms like a promise. Rogue leans in and kisses Sting’s nose, and the memories of being lost and lonely are replaced with a quiet, gentle affection.

“I love you,” Rogue says softly. “And I’m so proud of you.” He leans back and gazes at Sting, lips curved up in the smile that Sting’s loved for so long. It’s the same smile he’d give Sting when they were little – when he’d pop his head over the edge of the tree fort, dragging up a bag of snacks and making Sting feel safe.

“I love you, too.” Sting reaches out and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind Rogue’s ear. “Thank you.”

Rogue shakes his head, turning and pressing a kiss to Sting’s palm. “You did all the work,” he insists.

Sting shakes his head. “No, for…” He tips his head back to stare at the constellations through the roof of the tree fort. He feels six and eight and eleven and twenty-four all at the same time, and all of those versions of him are deeply, desperately in love with Rogue. “For being my home.”

Rogue kisses Sting’s hand again. “Always,” he says. The moonlight plays off his hair and casts shadows across his face, and his lips are warm, pressing against the flutter of Sting’s pulse in his wrist.

They sit in silence for a little bit, leaning against each other and watching the stars in the sky.

“It’s weird,” Rogue says after a while. “Thinking about someone else living here.”

Sting nods. He can just see the edge of the ‘FOR SALE’ sign in the front yard, put up three days ago when Rogue’s mom had told him they were moving to a smaller house. The idea of someone else sitting in Rogue’s old room, someone else’s kids playing in the yard, someone else drawing on the driveway with chalk... it makes Sting feel empty, somehow.

“I wish...” Rogue sighs, voice trailing off as a puff of white into the night air. Sting tips his head, studying the expression on Rogue’s face. His brow is drawn, the same as when he’s doing the crossword in the mornings before he asks Sting what an eleven-letter word for ‘destiny’ is. His hand is warm, thumb tapping out an absent rhythm against the back of Sting’s fingers, and he kicks his legs in time to the beat.

“What?” Rogue asks, looking over at him, and Sting is suddenly hit by all of his memories of Rogue’s smile.

_Five years old and hiding in the playground together, grinning at each other and digging in the sand. _

_Seven years old and kissing Rogue’s cheek while he holds a bouquet of dandelions Sting picked for him. _

_Nine years old, cuddled under a blanket and giggling while reading ‘Hardy Boys’ books with a flashlight. _

_Eleven years old and lying up in the fort, listening to music and wishing they could be together forever. _

“Marry me.” The words tumble out before Sting can think about them and he watches Rogue’s eyes go wide. “Marry me, and we’ll buy the house from your parents. We can live here.” Sting can feel his hand shaking in Rogue’s and he can barely breathe, but it feels so right. “We’ll get all the Pokémon games, and we can buy ice cream all the time, just like we promised. Remember?”

Rogue nods slowly, expression somewhere between stunned and ecstatic, and Sting can feel himself starting to cry, even though the smile that’s creeping across his face. “Marry me,” he says again, softer this time. “We’ll make a home here. And maybe…” He takes a deep breath. “Maybe our kids can play here, someday. Just like us.”

“Sting,” Rogue breathes, and then they’re kissing desperately under the night sky. Sting’s hand finds its way into Rogue’s hair and he pulls Rogue closer.

“I love you,” he whispers, a promise against Rogue’s lips. “Marry me?”

“Yes,” Rogue says, laughing wetly as he presses their foreheads together. “Yes. You’re my favorite person.”

Sting holds Rogue tight, not bothering to wipe away the tears, and whispers, “You’re my favorite person, too.”

* * *

Natsu cries when Sting asks him to be the best man.

“I thought I was the one who cried at everything,” Sting teases as Natsu wipes his face with his sleeve. The picture on the computer screen is a bit blurry, but it’s better than a phone call.

“Shut up,” Natsu grumbles. “I’m allowed to have feelings, too, asshole.”

Sting laughs, swallowing down the lump in his own throat and blinking to keep back the tears. “So, is that a yes?” he asks.

“Of course.” Natsu looks up at him with wet eyes and a bright smile. “When’s the wedding?”

“We’re, um... not sure yet.” Sting leans back in his chair as Lector pads into the room and hops up on his lap. “I kinda proposed by accident.”

“How the hell did you manage that?” Natsu asks, laughing, then shakes his head. “Why don’t you tell me in person – I’m gonna be in town next weekend for Laxus’ bachelor party.”

Sting nods. He’d gotten the invitation as well – a simple text with a date, time, and the address of a nearby bar. It’s been sitting on his phone for nearly a week, unanswered.

“You don’t have to come,” Natsu says gently. “He’ll understand. We can have brunch or something together later.”

Sting reaches into his pocket and fiddles with the chip there. He’s been around alcohol since getting sober – Rogue’s parents have a drink of wine with dinner occasionally, or Rufus will get a beer when they’re out for lunch. This is different, though, and Sting has grown enough now to know that he can’t handle it.

“Brunch sounds good,” he says, looking back up at Natsu and smiling. “Text me when you’re here and we’ll figure something out.”

* * *

It’s nearly midnight on Saturday when Sting’s phone goes off. He groans, rubbing his face and reaching out blindly for the side table to grab it. Natsu’s name flashes on the screen and Sting sighs.

“I meant in the actual morning, dumbass,” he grumbles, moving to turn the ringer off. Then the words under Natsu’s name register and he’s suddenly wide awake.

_Ellie is here. _

Sting pushes himself up on one elbow, blinking the sleep from his eyes and opening the message. A blurry photo is attached to it of a young guy with short, black hair, leaning against the bar with a drink in his hand. 

_He’s here, _Natsu’s message says. _I found him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did a little bit of retconning here in terms of the events of [how to become a wildfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074658?view_full_work=true) \- originally gray had met sting at the bar at the bachelor party. with sting being a recovering alcoholic it didn't make sense, so i have them meet a little later instead.


	18. help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting meets Gray and tries his best to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for discussion of Gray being abused and brief mention of past self-harm/suicidal thoughts
> 
> this runs concurrent with chapter [ten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074658/chapters/45625234) of [how to become a wildfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074658?view_full_work=true)

help \ ˈhelp  
verb  
**: **to give assistance or support to

.

**xviii  
spring  
age twenty-four**

**.**

“Sorry I’m late.”

Natsu flops down into the booth across from Sting, tossing his bag into the corner and running a hand through his messy hair. His eyes are red, and he looks like he’s barely slept.

“You look like shit.”

“I know,” Natsu mumbles, rubbing his eyes and gratefully taking the cup of coffee that Sting pushes across the table at him. He grabs a handful of sugar packets and rips them open all at the same time, dumping them in the cup and stirring it. “It was a late night.”

Sting nods. He’d only received two short texts from Natsu after the first one – _His name is Gray now, _and _I need to talk to you; tmw at 1? _He’s about to ask what happened when the server appears at their table. “Good afternoon,” he says. “Welcome to…”

The man trails off, staring past Sting at Natsu with wide eyes. Sting immediately recognizes him from the picture on their old fridge – his hair is shorter, and his face is leaner, but he’s definitely the same person that Natsu has been desperately in love with for years.

Natsu looks like he might say something, but then the man – Gray – turns to look at Sting and his eyes widen further, this time in fear. It takes Sting a second to realize that Gray is staring at the badge on his uniform. An unsettled feeling creeps into Sting’s stomach as he starts to take in more details – the dark circles under Gray’s eyes, the way he’s clutching the menu with fingers that are turning white, the faint red mark on his cheek.

“You must be Gray,” Sting says, giving him his best warm smile and reaching out his hand. “I’m Sting – a friend of Natsu’s from college.” The relief on Gray’s face is obvious, and Sting’s heart aches as he quickly puts the pieces together. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Gray says, voice soft as he shakes Sting’s hand. He’s like a rabbit, skittish and ready to bolt, and Sting wishes that he didn’t recognize himself in Gray’s eyes.

Natsu leans forward and starts to say something, but Gray quickly interrupts him.

“Sorry, I, uh—there was a mistake, I…” He sways unsteadily and Sting’s ready to reach out again, but Gray catches himself on the table and stares down at the floor. Before Natsu can say anything, Gray turns around and runs.

“Fuck,” Natsu whispers, rubbing his face with both hands as he watches Gray retreat to the kitchen. “Shit, he probably thinks I’m stalking him. I swear I didn’t know he worked here.”

Sting doesn’t answer, just stares at the kitchen door as it swings back and forth. His stomach is twisting itself into knots, trying to push away memories of anger and fear and hurt. He knows exactly why Gray ran away, and he wishes he didn’t.

Another waiter appears quickly, a young girl with blond hair who is friendly and sweet. Once she’s taken their order, Natsu takes a handful of coffee creamers and starts to stack them into a tower.

“What happened last night?” Sting asks, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

The tower of creamer cups falls over and Natsu starts to stack them again. “We were…” 

“Drunk?”

Natsu winces. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Was he with somebody?”

Natsu shakes his head. “He was alone, and he—god, I was so excited ‘cause I finally found him, I haven’t… I haven’t seen him in five years. He looks so different. I missed him so fucking much.”

Sting can tell that Natsu is fighting tears, and he reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. “I know you did,” he says softly.

“We both had too much to drink,” Natsu says. “I didn’t know… we were making out, I don’t remember who started it, and he came back to my hotel with me, but then he was… he seemed so upset. And he told me he had a boyfriend and left, but he forgot his jacket, so I went to look for him and I found him throwing up in the alley and crying, it was…”

Natsu lets go of Sting’s hand and rubs his face with both hands, then runs his fingers through his hair, groaning in frustration.

“He was so scared,” Natsu says, looking down at the table. “I paid for a cab to get him back home, but he was terrified. I’d never seen him like that before.”

Sting’s heart aches. “Someone’s hurting him.” 

“I know,” Natsu says sadly. “It’s his boyfriend, but he won’t admit it, and I don’t know what to do.”

* * *

They spend the rest of the meal talking quietly, but Sting can tell that Natsu’s heart isn’t in it. He keeps looking over Sting’s shoulder, searching the restaurant for another sign of Gray. Sting sees him a few times in another section, but he pointedly avoids them for the rest of the meal.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sting says gently when Natsu contemplates asking the manager to talk to Gray. “I know you want to see him, but if you’re right about his boyfriend, that could make things worse.”

Natsu’s jaw tightens and he looks like he’s going to cry. “I know that, I just…”

“Here.” Sting hands him a pen. “Write him a note, let him know you’re gonna be at the beach later. Then it’s up to him if he wants to come meet you.”

Natsu nods and quickly scribbles something on the paper, then folds it a few times and writes _Gray _on it. He tucks it into the sleeve of the credit card holder, then looks past Sting once more toward the kitchen.

“Natsu,” Sting says gently as they head out the restaurant and back into the spring afternoon. “You have to think about this. What are you planning on doing?”

“I don’t know,” Natsu says. “I just want to talk to him. I missed him so fucking much, I don’t want to lose him again.” He looks down at the scuffed toes of his shoes. “Can you—is there anything you can do?”

Sting sighs. “Not really,” he admits. “He’s an adult, he’s legally allowed to make his own decisions. And involving the police – if he’s not ready to leave or admit something’s wrong – can make it worse a lot of the time.” 

“Fuck.”

“I’m sorry.” Sting’s chest aches at the helpless expression on Natsu’s face. “I can keep an eye on him. This place is pretty close to the precinct, it wouldn’t be suspicious.”

Natsu nods, staring back at the restaurant. “I wanted to find him,” he says quietly, “But I didn’t want it to be like this.”

* * *

Sting keeps his word and visits the restaurant as often as he can. Gray works most days, and while he’s wary of Sting at first, eventually he starts to relax and talk a little. They never talk about Natsu – Sting can tell that Gray wants to ask, but he doesn’t know how to bring it up.

Over the next few months, Sting starts to learn things about Gray. He’s smart – he wants to be an engineer one day – and he’s kind. He has a Rottweiler named Bella. He likes his coffee black and his eggs over easy, and he’s definitely being abused.

“You don’t look so great,” Sting says one afternoon as Gray refills his coffee. Gray’s eyes are red, and his hair is a mess, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a few days. Sting’s pretty sure he saw a bruise peeking out from under the collar of his shirt earlier.

Gray doesn’t answer and Sting frowns. “Gray? You okay?”

Gray stares at Sting for a few seconds, then quickly shakes his head.

“Yeah, it’s… I’ve just been sick.” The words are hollow, and his smile is forced. “I’m fine.”

_You’re not, _Sting thinks, guilt and frustration welling up inside him. _It doesn’t have to be like this, please let me help you. _

“Rogue came down with something last week, too,” he forces himself to say instead. Then his police radio crackles and Gray is so startled that he jumps back from the table. Before Sting can ask anything else, Gray gives him a quick smile and backs away, then turns and heads toward the kitchen.

Sting runs his fingers over the bill and stares down at his forearms. He’s wearing his long-sleeved uniform today and his scars are hidden, but he has every one of them memorized. His skin carries so many memories – bruises in the shape of his dad’s fingerprints, a burn from one of Ryan’s cigarettes, self-inflicted marks that will never disappear.

_I’m fine. _He’s ten and his teacher asks why he doesn’t have a lunch, and how he got the bruise on his arm.

_I’m fine. _He’s eleven and Uncle Wes keeps asking him how he’s feeling.

_I’m fine. _He’s fifteen and the school counsellor asks if he’s been sleeping okay.

_I’m fine. _He’s seventeen and a woman at the bus stop wants to know if he needs money for the ride home.

_I’m fine. _He’s nineteen and his coworkers are asking why he’s hungover every goddamn day.

But he was never fine, and Gray isn’t either, and there’s nothing Sting can do.

* * *

_If you need help and you can’t tell someone, ask me if I want decaf coffee next time I’m here. I’ll know what you mean and do what I can to help. People care about you. ~Sting_

* * *

That evening Sting gets a text from Natsu.

Natsu [17:23] _he texted me. _

A wave of fear rushes through Sting and he sits down heavily on the couch, holding his phone in both hands. Rogue frowns, looking up from his crochet project and setting it down on the coffee table.

“What’s wrong, love?” he asks, shifting closer to Sting and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“I’m not sure,” Sting says. He leans into Rogue’s embrace as he replies.

Sting [17:24] _Is he okay? _

Natsu [17:24] _no but i cant fucking do anything. he said i cant text him or call him. that fucking asshole is hurting him and i just wanna drive out there and take him away. _

Rogue reads the message over Sting’s shoulder, making a sad sound and pulling him closer.

Natsu [17:25] _i gave him your # and said if he needed help to text u. im so scared for him. this is his # but u can’t text him or call him. _

Natsu [17:25] _Shared Contact: Gray <3 (G)_

Sting saves the number, staring at it for a minute and wishing he could just call it and drive over there and bring Gray here, where he’ll be safe. He knows Gray isn’t ready, though, and it hurts.

Sting [17:26] _I’ve got it saved. I told him today that if he needs help he can ask me if I want decaf when I’m there. I’m sorry I can’t do more. _

Natsu [17:27] _its ok. i hope he texts me again. i miss him so much. _

“I’m sorry,” Rogue murmurs as Sting sends a quick reply, then sets his phone down on the table. He turns to Rogue and curls up against him, pressing his face into the crook of his neck. Rogue smells like coffee, and he’s warm and comforting – Sting’s safe place.

“I just want to help,” Sting says quietly. Frosch, their new kitten, hops up onto the couch and meows at Sting loudly before curling up on his stomach. He sighs, stroking the soft fur behind her ears.

“You are helping,” Rogue says. “Maybe just knowing that he has people looking out for him is enough right now.”

“Maybe.” Sting nudges Rogue until he’s lying back against the couch and Sting’s curled up in his arms. Sting’s wearing a t-shirt now and can see every scar, and when Rogue notices him staring, he takes Sting’s arm and kisses the marks. “It’s weird,” Sting says quietly, “being on the other side.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trying to help instead of refusing it.” He tips his head back until he can see the photo of him and Uncle Wes hanging on the wall. Rogue took it a couple years ago at the pride parade – they’re both wearing rainbow t-shirts and Sting’s cheeks are covered in glitter. “Is this how Uncle Wes felt?”

Rogue doesn’t answer, just kisses Sting’s forehead and holds him closer. A lump grows in Sting’s throat and he tries to swallow it down, but a few stray tears escape. Rogue brushes them away with his thumb and leans in to press a soft, gentle kiss to Sting’s lips.

Sting returns the kiss, then rubs his eyes and says, “I need to go see Uncle Wes.”

* * *

As soon as Uncle Wes opens the front door, Sting pulls him into a hug.

“Are you all right?” Uncle Wes asks, voice filled with concern as he returns the embrace. “Are you hurt? Where’s Rogue?”

“He’s at home, I’m fine,” Sting reassures him, pulling back and rubbing his face. “I, um… needed a hug.” Now that he’s here, the idea of driving an hour and a half just for a hug seems silly.

“Of course,” Uncle Wes says without hesitation. “You’re always welcome here. Come in.” He holds the door open and gestures for Sting to come into the living room, then settles down next to him on the couch. “What’s wrong?”

“One of my friends is… in a shitty situation,” Sting says, curling up in the corner of the couch. Uncle Wes still has the same knitted blanket that he’d grown attached to after moving here as a kid, and Sting pulls it off the back of the couch and drapes it over his legs.

“What kind of situation?”

“His partner is hurting him,” Sting says quietly, “And he’s not ready to leave.”

“Ah.” Uncle Wes nods. “And you know how hard that can be.”

Sting sighs, tugging at one of the pieces of yarn that’s coming loose from the blanket. “Yeah,” he says. “I want to help, but I can’t, and… is this what you felt like? For all those years?”

Uncle Wes doesn’t answer right away. Instead he looks over at the side table where there’s a picture of the two of them on Sting’s twelfth birthday. Sting remembers it like it was yesterday – the first time in a long time that he’d felt safe and entirely at peace. Right before everything had fallen apart.

“It was hard,” Uncle Wes admits. “I wanted to make it better for you – to take away all the things that hurt you and make them disappear. I felt helpless, watching you have nightmares, and cry, and get so angry.”

“I’m sorry,” Sting says, but Uncle Wes shakes his head.

“You were hurting,” he says. “And your friend is, too. But you can’t take those things away for him. You can’t fix it.”

“I know,” Sting says miserably, thinking about the way Gray had jumped at the static from his radio earlier. His mind drifts to days with Ryan, to the blur of shouting and drinking and wanting to die.

“You found your way eventually,” Uncle Wes says. “And so will he.”

“But what do I do?” Sting asks. “What can I do now, to make it better?”

“All you can do is love,” Uncle Wes says, reaching out and squeezing Sting’s knee. “Love, and have hope.”


End file.
